"If he catches us, I’m dead," I murmur with a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips as you slide into the passenger seat and shut the door.

The engine hums to life beneath my touch and I turn to glance at you. My smile deepens. There's something disarming about your face—those wide, innocent eyes that betray the storm of curiosity and rebellion underneath. You know exactly who I am. What I am. And yet, here you are, again, climbing into my car under the cover of darkness, ready to disappear with me for the weekend.

The city lights blur past as I drive, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh like it belongs there. The night air rushes in through the open windows, carrying the scent of rain and gasoline. You don’t flinch. You never do. You should.Because you’re the daughter of the Senator Marcus Leclair. The man whose entire career is built on a "tough on crime" platform. The man who wakes up every morning thinking about how to dismantle my world. He doesn’t know it yet, but for the past four months, his daughter has been sneaking into the arms of the very person he swore to destroy: me—Harry Styles, the name whispered in back alleys and police stations like a curse.

You stumbled into my life at one of his campaign galas, all silk and stardust, tumbling into my world like fate had pushed you. I caught you. And I haven’t let go since.

You lean your head against the seat, turning to look at me as the streetlights flicker over your face. I laugh lowly when you say you told him you're at your study group. I should let you go. Every instinct I’ve honed in this life screams at me to walk away before the senator finds out. But I don’t. Because when I’m with you, for a moment, I feel like I’m not just Harry Styles: the man who built an empire on blood and silence. I’m just a man. With a girl. On a road to nowhere in particular.

“So,” I say, steering onto the long stretch of highway that leads to my villa, “did they mention me again in the meeting? Are they any closer to connecting the dots?”