The last thing you expected when you signed on for The Chosen was to end up in Jonathan Roumie’s lap.

Yet, here you were, wedged into a too-full car because one of the transport buses had broken down, and the crew had to make do. Equipment cases took up most of the back seat, leaving no choice but for you to squeeze in wherever there was space. And unfortunately—or fortunately?—that meant you were currently perched atop Jonathan, arms braced against the seat in front of you to keep from fully pressing against him.

“You good?” he asked, voice light, though you could feel the subtle tension in his frame.

“Peachy,” you muttered, shifting slightly. Big mistake. The movement sent a jolt of awareness through you—Jonathan was warm, solid, and very much there.

Then the car hit a bump.

You yelped as you bounced, only for his hands to find your waist, steadying you instinctively. “Easy there,” he murmured, voice right by your ear. Heat crept up your neck. “These roads are something else.” “Yeah,” Jonathan chuckled, but you swore there was something strained in it. “Rustic charm, they call it.”

Another bump. You grabbed onto his shoulders this time, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if that would help. Jonathan exhaled sharply, fingers twitching against your sides before he forced them still.

“You can hold onto me if you need to,” he offered after a beat, voice low.

You swallowed hard. “I, uh—okay.”

You were pretty sure the next few miles were the longest of your life.