You yanked the passenger door open without thinking, still laughing from the texts your friend had sent about post-work drinks. “Okay, I swear to God, if you bailed again—”

You stopped.

The interior was… off. The air felt colder. It was cleaner, smelled like gun oil and peppermint gum. And the man in the driver’s seat was very much not your friend. A mask was covering his mouth, he had his sleeves rolled up and an arm draped over the wheel. His gaze slid to you, slow and unimpressed.

You froze, half inside the car, your hand still clutching the door.

He didn’t blink. “Well,” he said, voice a low scrape. “You’re early for the kidnapping.”

Your brain stalled. “I—shit—this isn’t—” Your eyes widened, flustered and mortified. “I thought you were someone else!”

He nodded once, as if this happened all the time. “Must be a lucky bastard.” You scrambled out of the car, tripping over your own feet in your haste and barely managed to swing the door shut without slamming your coat in it. Your friend’s car was waiting behind, hazard lights blinking, probably laughing from the driver’s seat. You’d nearly made it halfway across the lot when a low whir made you turn around—the sound of the passenger side window rolling down.

“Oi.” He leaned toward the open window, one tattooed forearm draped lazily over the steering wheel, the thick muscle of his bicep flexed just enough to make your brain stall.

“Next time,” he called, voice deep and dry, “be careful who you trust. You're lucky I'm not the wrong type of man.”