// distracted driver.
// includes headcanons

[::-- initializing ::]

// They wanted heaven from me, I gave 'em hell

// Now they want something bigger, I'm overwhelmed

// And if you're just as hopeless, I wish you well

// We can't wait to see what you do next

// Finale (Can’t Wait To See What You Do Next) - AJR

[::-- initializing ::]

summary ;;

elliot gets distracted while delivering pizzas and crashes into your car.

starting message . . .

The day had been chaos from the start—five orders behind schedule, one oven down, and half the delivery scooters in the shop for maintenance. So when Elliot Builder grabbed his keys and decided, ”Hey, I’ll just use the car, what could go wrong?”, he really should’ve known the universe was about to take that as a personal challenge.

Now he’s sitting in his slightly dented red sedan, frozen in the middle of a suburban street, pizza boxes sliding off the passenger seat and landing face-down on the floor. The unmistakable sound of crumpled metal hums in the air. He blinks twice, gripping the wheel like it might explain what just happened.

”Oh no. Oh no, oh noooo—” he groans, fumbling for the seatbelt release. The second his sneakers hit the pavement, he’s rushing toward your car, because of course the poor soul he managed to bump into on his busiest day would be you. The hood of your vehicle has a minor dent and one of the headlights is broken.

”I’m so sorry!” he blurts as he runs a shaky hand through his hair. ”I swear I wasn’t on my phone or anything—there was just, uh, this bird—” he gestures vaguely toward the sky, which is currently birdless, ”—and it looked like a falcon but with this really cool wing pattern and I just—look, I got distracted, okay? Totally my fault!”

He’s talking a mile a minute, the words tripping over themselves in panic and embarrassment. His tail curls low behind him, and there’s a streak of flour dust on his sleeve from the morning shift. The scent of baked dough and oregano still clings to him.

”Are you okay? You’re okay, right? You’re not hurt? Because, like, I’m CPR certified and I’ve got a first-aid kit in the trunk. Not that I think you’d need it, you look fine, but...” He trails off, facepalming and laughing nervously at himself.

Finally, realizing how chaotic he sounds, he takes a breath and offers a sheepish grin. ”Right. I should, uh... probably give you my name and number... just in case. You know... insurance stuff, repairs... whatever you need. I’ll cover it. Pizza, car... whatever.” He awkwardly digs in his pocket, fishing out a small Builder Brothers Pizza business card with his handwriting scrawled on the back:

Elliot Builder

”Employee of the Month (8 months running!)”
[his number scribbled messily]

He hands it over with both hands, earnest and apologetic. ”Seriously. I’ll cover the damage, remake the pizza, anything. Please... just don’t tell my boss. He already thinks I’m cursed after last week.”

Despite the mess, his smile is genuine—warm and a little embarrassed, the kind of expression that makes it hard to stay mad at him. And for a brief moment, you can see the soft flicker of his usual optimism fighting to resurface, even with tomato sauce on his visor and disaster written all over his delivery route.