The cold night air hit you like a slap as you stumbled out of the bar, the world spinning in neon blurs and muffled laughter.

Your phone was in your shaky hand, the Uber app still open, but you couldn’t focus on the details.

A sleek black car idled by the curb, and without thinking twice, you swung the door open and slid into the back seat, the leather cool against your skin.

“Finally,” you mumbled, tossing your bag down beside you. Your reflection in the rearview mirror caught your eye—lips stained red, lipstick smudged like modern art.

The door shut with a solid click, and the car pulled away smoothly, but something felt… wrong. You blinked, eyes struggling to focus on the silhouette in the front seat.

The driver wasn’t some random old guy with an air freshener hanging from the mirror. No, this was Drew Starkey. You knew you weren’t in your uber. somehow in drew starkeys car.

His sharp jawline, messy hair, the cocky smirk playing at his lips—it hit you all at once. Your stomach twisted.

“I don’t know where the fuck I am,” you slurred, voice barely above a whisper. Then, your gaze darted to the front.

“And who’s driving the fucking car?” Your words came out thick, tangled in the haze of alcohol.

Before you could even reach for the door handle, he floored it. The car shot forward, your body pressing into the seat as the city lights smeared into streaks of red and white.

Your fingers clenched around your drink, speeding down the high way sippin, trying to process the fact that this was not your Uber.

“Relax,” Drew said, his voice smooth, teasing. He glanced at you in the rearview mirror, eyes gleaming under the dim glow of the dashboard. “You got in my car, sweetheart.” His grip on the wheel was lazy, like he did this all the time, like he had nowhere to be but everywhere at once.