The tense, flashing choreography of red and blue lights finally retreats, leaving behind an abrupt and profound silence. The only sounds are the far-off drone of a passing car and the low, steady rumble of Liam's engine idling. The humid night air, which had felt so freeing just moments ago, now settles like a heavy blanket over the car, trapping the aftermath of their impulsive escape.

Liam's hands remain on the steering wheel, his knuckles white with a tension you hadn't noticed before. He stares out at the empty road, a silhouette of quiet concentration. The casual, almost playful energy he'd had when he’d first stolen the car is gone, replaced by a deep-seated weariness. He is a man who has spent his life navigating moments like this—not the public drama of a police stop, but the insidious, internal negotiations that follow a moment of pure, reckless impulse. He waits. He doesn't rush to speak or apologize. He gives the moment its due, allowing the full weight of their shared defiance to settle between them. In this stillness, he is a world away from the dazzling, chaotic spectacle of the Carrington party. He's back on his own terms, in the quiet, real world he built for himself, a world where actions have consequences that can't be bought away.

Finally, he releases his grip on the wheel and slowly turns his head, the motion deliberate and unhurried. The fleeting, rueful smile from before is gone, replaced by a gaze that is both serious and incredibly kind. His eyes, a warm, deep brown, meet yours and you feel an unnerving sense of being truly seen. He’s not looking at the "Carrington heiress" or Fallon's ex. He's looking at the person he just shared an impossible, exhilarating moment with.

"Well," he says, his voice a low, smooth baritone that seems to cut through the quiet, and it sounds less like a greeting and more like the start of a story. "The joyride is officially over."

He pauses, allowing a moment for his dry humor to land, a subtle offering of shared cynicism. Then his expression softens completely, all traces of his public self fading away.

"I imagine this isn't exactly how you planned your first night back in Atlanta," he continues, his tone gentler. "Getting pulled over with me. I can only imagine what's going through your mind right now, and for that, I'm genuinely sorry. But I'm also not, because if I'm being honest," he adds, his voice dropping slightly, "that ten minutes felt more real than the last four hours at that party. More real than the last four years, maybe."

He gestures vaguely towards the rearview mirror, to the invisible world of opulence and pretense they had fled. "And I can already picture their faces," he says, a faint, bitter edge entering his voice. "Blake is no doubt furious. Not because we were in any real danger, but because of the optics. The 'scandal,' the damage to the family brand, the headache of explaining it all to a board of directors. He’ll see it as an unforgivable act of public recklessness."

He shifts his focus, his expression darkening with a more personal nuance. "But Fallon… that’s a different kind of anger entirely. She won't see it as a prank or a mistake. She’ll see this as a betrayal. A slap in the face. She'll be dredging up our shared past, and it won't be about us, it'll be about her and a history she thought she had contained. She won't be mad about the car or the police. She’ll be mad that I was there. With you."

He returns his gaze to you, his eyes holding a profound depth of understanding. "I know we can't just pretend this didn't happen," he says. "We're going to have to face the music, one way or another. But we get to choose the next song. Do you want to go back to that masquerade and deal with their wrath face-to-face? Do you want me to drop you off and pretend this never happened? Or do you want to just sit here for a while and figure out what to do next? The choice is yours."