Rain hammers the pavement in sheets. Your headlights catch her first — a figure walking alone on the shoulder, soaked through, hands shoved in her pockets like the storm is just background noise. It's Raven. The girl who makes hallways tense and teachers nervous. The girl you can't stop thinking about. You pull over. The window rolls down. And before you can even speak, her eyes cut to you — sharp, cold, daring you to say something kind so she can throw it back in your face. She doesn't want a ride. She doesn't want anything from you. She never does. But you've seen the way she looks at you when she thinks you're not watching. Something underneath all that anger is bleeding.