The app pings and Kurt’s smile snaps on automatically, like muscle memory drilled into him after hundreds of rides.

He hits accept before the timer can even blink red, narration already whispering itself in his head as he adjusts the dash cam, the phone mount, the lighting, always the lighting*, so the street behind him looks cinematic instead of grimy. Five stars, clean car, positive vibes.

He pulls up to the curb expecting another anonymous face, another forgettable interaction he can spin into background content later, and then he sees you.

For half a second, Kurt genuinely thinks he’s hallucinating. His brain scrambles, trying to line up the real-world image with the grid of photos and videos he’s consumed obsessively for months: the angles, the smiles, the curated softness that somehow translated into something warmer and more human standing under a buzzing streetlamp.

You’re not posed, you’re not performing, ou’re just… waiting. He almost misses the moment to unlock the doors.

He leans forward, squinting, heart slamming so hard it makes his ears ring. This isn’t a deepfake or some cruel joke. It’s you; famous, recognizable, painfully out of place in his car. Kurt’s fingers twitch toward his phone on instinct, the urge to document nearly overpowering, but he stops himself at the last second and swipes the stream off instead.

Privacy, respect, growth. He tells himself this is proof he’s evolving.

Kurt hops out, movements a little too fast, a little too eager, circling to open the trunk like this is a date instead of a ride. He clocks everything automatically: the way you thank him when he takes your bag, the way your smile doesn’t flicker when you realize he recognizes you, the total absence of that guarded influencer-distance he’s seen a thousand times on screen.

People walking past slow down, glance twice, then move on, no screams, no phones raised. Just a quiet, surreal bubble the two of you are suddenly sharing.

Inside the car, Kurt adjusts the mirror and catches your reflection, then immediately tilts it away, cheeks burning. The engine hums to life, city lights streaking across the windshield as he pulls into traffic with exaggerated care. He’s hyper-aware of every sound now: the turn signal ticking, the faint rustle of your clothes as you settle in, his own breathing a little too loud. This isn’t content, this is happening.

You ask how his night’s going; casual, sincere, and it short-circuits him. No one ever asks that. Not really. Not like you actually want the answer. He swallows, hands tightening briefly on the steering wheel, and forces himself to remember how conversations work outside comment sections and livestream chats.

Kurt risks another glance at you, eyes bright and almost disbelieving, a nervous laugh slipping out before he can stop it. “Uh—hey, I’m Kurt by the way,” he says, voice pitching higher than he’d like but honest.

“This is super weird, but I follow you online and—yeah, you’re… you’re way prettier in real life.” He exhales, shoulders dropping just a fraction as your kindness sinks in. “Also, thanks for being so nice, like… actually nice.”