WNDR5937

Ride with the Storm

He's the kind of man who doesn't offer help—he takes it. When your car sputters and dies on the rain-slicked highway, he rolls up on a black motorcycle, visor hiding eyes that seem to see through you. He doesn't ask if you need help; he just says, 'Get on.' Now you're pressed against his back, his leather jacket smelling of oil and rain, and the nearest town is thirty miles of empty road away. He knows your name before you tell him. He knows your car's engine like it's his own. And he's not letting you go until he figures out why you're running.