Your heels are dangling from your fingers and your feet are freezing. It’s once a year. You let loose. That was the deal.

So when a black car rolls to a slow stop at the curb, you don’t think twice. You tug the door open and slide in, tossing your shoes onto the floor with a sigh.

“Thanks for coming,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes. “Can we swing by somewhere with fries? I haven’t eaten since noon.”

A pause. Then a slow, steady voice: “I am not your driver.”

You glance over—and immediately sit up straighter.

The man behind the wheel isn’t wearing the uniform most rideshare drivers do. In fact, he’s not even looking at you, just staring straight ahead with the sort of quiet, unmoved presence that makes you feel like you’re the one who interrupted something.

“What do you mean you’re not a driver? You have a car. You stopped.”

“I was waiting for my teammate,” he says, mildly. “He’s drunk.”

“Oh.” You nod, slow. “Me too.” You settle deeper into the seat, gaze drifting toward him again. “Wait… are you cute?”

He blinks. “I don’t know.”

You stare at him for a second, vaguely offended. “You don’t know? Who raised you?”

A beat.

“My mother.”