The silence between them was thick. His eyes begged for answers. Hers — hers were drowning.
"Jess?" he tried again, softer now. "Talk to me. Are you hurt?"
But she shook her head, and a tear slid down her cheek.
"Your back…" Jess's voice cracked, her eyes finally locking with his. "You're hurt."
Simon blinked, confused at first until her gaze dropped and his instincts kicked in. He reached behind him, fingers brushing something wet and warm. When he brought his hand forward, it was covered in blood.
"Oh."
The word slipped out in surprise more than fear.
"I'm fine," he said quickly, giving her a lopsided smile. "Really. I can't even feel it. Probably just from the crash."
But Jess didn't smile back. Her eyes were glassy now, lips quivering. A tear slid down her cheek before she could even stop it.
"Wait… is that why you're crying?" he asked, letting out a soft laugh. "Come on, Jess. You're being dramatic."
She wasn't. Not even a little. But Simon was trying to make light of it, trying to be okay so she would be okay.
And then she threw her arms around him.
He didn't wince. Her arms tightened. She didn't care about the blood, or the fact that they were still standing in the middle of a wrecked road. She just sobbed against him, shaking with every breath.
"You're being too strong," she whispered into his chest. "You didn't even think, you just threw yourself at me. You saved me."
Simon held her tighter.
"I couldn't let anything happen to you," he murmured. "That's all."
"You idiot," she said between shaky breaths. "You absolute, stupid, selfless idiot."
"You're welcome," he chuckled weakly, rubbing circles on her back. When her crying eased, he pulled away gently and cupped her face.
He wiped her tears with his thumb. His eyes were soft, almost proud.
"I'm okay, Jess. Promise."
She nodded, but her brow was still tight with worry.
Simon glanced at the wrecked bicycle a few feet away and groaned.
"So… any idea how we're getting to church now? 'Cause I'm not giving you a piggyback with a bleeding spine."
Jess let out a watery laugh.
"You better hope that church service comes with first aid."
The church wasn't far, maybe five minutes if they walked fast. But every second felt longer now.
Simon lifted his wrist to check the time, but the cracked face of his watch greeted him instead. Useless.
He sighed, digging into his pocket for his phone. The screen flickered briefly, then died, shattered from the crash.
"Sh*t," he muttered. "Jess, can you check the time?"
He didn't wait for her answer, just slipped the ruined phone back into his pocket and walked toward where his bicycle had landed. It looked untouched. Just flung away when he dove.
"We can still make it," he said over his shoulder, "if we leave now."
"But you…" she hesitated, watching him as he wheeled the bike toward her. "You're not okay, Simon. You shouldn't be walking, let alone—"
"I'll live." He gave her a crooked smile and gently braked in front of her. "We both will."
He reached into his pocket again, pulling out a folded handkerchief. He offered it to her without a word.
She hesitated, then took it, wiping the faint streaks of blood from her hands. Her lips were pressed tight, her eyes still scanning him for signs he was just pretending to be okay.
Simon looked down the road, toward the church spire peeking above the trees.
"Let's go," he said, quieter now. "We'll get there before the last Amen."
So they walked, his bike rolling quietly beside them, the early morning sun bleeding into gold above their heads.
As he walked beside Jessica, something suddenly clicked in Simon's head, something he should've noticed earlier.
The truck.
It had come straight at him. He saw it. He looked through the windshield. Why hadn't that part sunk in before?
His breath hitched.
There was no one in the driver's seat. Not even a shadow in the passenger's seat. Nothing. Just glass and empty space.
His steps slowed.
That couldn't be right. He'd been focused on Jessica, yes, but he'd seen clearly. It was vivid in his memory. No one had been driving that truck.
A cold chill crept up his spine.
Was the truck... driving itself?
No, he thought. That's ridiculous. That's impossible.
But was it?
What would a massive 16-wheeler even be doing in their small, quiet town on a Sunday? No visitors. No through-roads. No reason. And now this? Their first "visitor" in years... and it's a phantom truck?
Questions flooded his mind, each more unhinged than the last.
Who sent it?
Why now?
What the hell is going on?
He knew no one would believe him. Not even Jessica. She'd say it was the adrenaline, or a trick of the light, or that he imagined it while trying to save her.
But he hadn't.
And the more he thought about it, the more he knew he had to talk to someone. Someone who might actually understand.
Father Nicholas.
The name came to him instantly. The priest had always been strange, always watching him a little too closely, always knowing things.
But he might have answers.
Problem was Father Nicholas's stay in town had wasn't definitive due to the announced transfer. He might be leaving town, I mean he will. Who will give up such opportunity for this town. Simon had to act fast.
He let out a quiet laugh.
This... this might just be the excuse he needed. His parents and Father Nicholas had always forbidden him from leaving town for "his own safety," but this was serious. This mattered.
If talking to Nicholas meant leaving town?
Then hell yeah he was going.
Just like he expected, everyone was being so dramatic.
Simon sat stiffly on one of the church benches, eyes half-lidded, as concerned faces hovered around him like bees to spilled honey. Whispers filled the chapel like incense smoke, curling around words like "miracle", "courage", and "divine protection."
Can they get it over with already?
The service had quickly shifted from Sunday worship to "Simon and Jessica Appreciation Day," and Simon was the unwilling star of the show.
Yes, they survived the accident. Yes, it was insane. And yes, Jessica hadn't even gotten a scratch on her. But the way everyone carried on, you'd think he'd taken a bullet for the Pope.
Father Thomas had even reshaped his sermon around it. Something about sacrificial love and laying down one's life. He'd locked eyes with Simon mid-speech, like he was quoting scripture directly at him. People clapped. One woman actually wept.
But it wasn't the praise that made Simon uncomfortable, not really. It was the way Jessica kept looking at him, her eyes flickering to the blood on his shirt like it was a ticking clock. And beneath all of that, the bloodied map on his back that was slowly becoming impossible to ignore.
The moment they laid eyes on his back, gasps had echoed around the room like thunder. His back was a battlefield. Torn open, slick with dried blood, some patches so raw it looked like the skin had been sandpapered clean off. Jagged lines of road rash etched across his shoulders and spine like some unholy map.