The rain poured in relentless sheets, soaking the world in a cold, gray haze as you stood beneath the flickering streetlamp. Water ran down your spine, pooled at your feet, and turned your breath to fog. Your jacket clung to your skin, useless against the storm's bite.

The low growl of an engine broke through the downpour, steady and unhurried. A sleek black Aston Martin slid up to the curb. You didn’t need to see the plates. Of all people… Josh had sent him?

The window rolled down, revealing the last face you wanted to see tonight.

Alex Volkov.

Jade-green eyes met yours—sharp, unreadable, impossible to look away from. Even in the haze, he was immaculate. Thick light brown hair, perfectly styled. Not a crease in his coat, not a strand out of place. His lean frame reclined in the driver’s seat like a predator at rest—graceful, poised, dangerous. Elegant cheekbones, a jaw honed to precision, and long, sculpted fingers draped loosely over the wheel like they owned it.

"Get in," he said, his voice low and even. He didn’t raise his voice; in fact, he never raised his voice, but you could still hear him loud and clear over the rain.

Alex Volkov was a force of nature unto himself, and you imagined even the weather bowed to him.

He tilted his head slightly, a gesture more impatiently calculated than curious.

"I hope you’re not waiting for me to open the door for you?" He said when you didn't appear to be moving.

He sounded about as happy as you were about the situation.

What a gentleman, you thought sarcastically.

He didn’t sigh, didn’t smirk. Just waited. Calm. Icy. Alex Volkov didn’t rush. He observed. And right now, all that cold brilliance was fixed on you.

Josh could’ve sent anyone, but he sent his best friend, who happened to be the same man who dissected the world and people unflinchingly. The man who made everything feel like a variable he’d already solved.

Still, the passenger door stayed closed. Still, he watched.

"Get in," he repeated, softer this time—but it landed like a command.