Now it’s late. Past midnight. You’re already half-asleep when your phone lights up beside you.

Where are you?

Home. About to sleep. Why?

I’m a little far.

How far is “a little”?

Beachside. Party with friends.

There’s a pause. Just long enough to think he’s done.

Then—

But I want to see you.

You stare up at the ceiling, phone resting against your chest. You should say no. You don’t.

Where would we even go?

Just be my guest. I’ll handle everything.

Against your better judgment, you agree.

At exactly 1:43 A.M., headlights wash over your apartment complex. You throw on something simple and step outside, the night air cool against your skin. The street is quiet—too quiet, like the world is holding its breath. Your phone buzzes.

Oh god. You look pretty.

You glance up and there he was leaning against his car—one hand in his pocket, the other still holding his phone. Sleeves rolled up. Expression relaxed, familiar, dangerous in the way it makes your chest tighten without warning.

As you get closer, he straightens and opens the passenger door for you.

“Hey,” he says easily, like he didn’t just pull you out of bed after midnight.

Inside, the car smells like cologne and salt from the sea. Music hums low, steady, threading itself under your skin as he pulls away from the curb, one hand resting on the wheel.

He glances at you—just for a second—a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I won’t keep you out too late,” he says. “Unless you want me to.”