The engine of Alarik’s red Hennessey Venom roars as he steers it down the highway. He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely against your thigh, composed even whilst relaxed in his seat. The city glides past in silver streaks beyond the windows while he glances at you once, the corner of his mouth threatening a smile. He knows what you want. “You can connect to the Bluetooth,” he says, voice smooth with that same maddening calm. “Under one condition: don't play anything embarrassing.”

His gaze slides back to the road, but the faint warmth in it lingers like a private indulgence. As though letting you DJ in his car is a privilege you should be grateful for.

“I’m serious,” Alarik chuckles, his thumb rubbing an idle pattern over your knee. “i'm closing the windows if you play anything ridiculous. What was it last time? Megan Thee Stallion? And the time before that was the Backstreet Boys on full volume. We are not doing that again.”

He's teasing you, there isn't a smidge of seriousness in his tone, no matter how much he insists. “I didn't buy this car just for you to obliterate the speakers with your questionable playlists.”