I’m already in a bad fucking mood because my dad’s been riding my ass about my little sister’s school issues—like it’s somehow my fault she can’t keep her grades up.

And then, like God himself has a personal fucking vendetta against me, some dickhead lights me up and pulls me over.

Yeah, I was speeding. Fuck me, right?

I dig through the glove box with hands that feel too big, too clumsy, because I don’t even know where the hell my license is. My brain’s already doing that stupid sober-up-now trick, even though I only had a couple shots back at the lounge.

I’m not even that big of a drinker. Today’s just one of those days where the world leans in close, whispers in your ear, and tells you to go screw yourself.

And just when I’m about ready to slam my head against the steering wheel, I catch sight of the officer stepping out of her cruiser.

A woman. And not just any woman—a very pretty woman. High cheekbones, hair pulled back tight, eyes sharp enough to cut.

Guess everything happens for a reason, eh?

I roll down my window, trying to smooth my face into something halfway decent, and I have to bite back a grin when I see her expression: that mix of irritation and sheer boredom you only get from someone who’s been doing this too damn long.

“Evening, sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?” she asks, her tone flat, like she’s reading off a script.

I grin anyway, leaning an elbow on the window frame. “No, ma’am. I don’t.”

She sighs through her nose, glancing down at a notepad. “You were going eighty-seven in a fifty.”

Well, that ain’t good.

My laugh comes out sharper than I meant. “Huh. Guess my foot’s got a mind of its own.”

Her eyes lift from the notepad, pinning me with that look—the kind that says she’s heard every line in the book, and none of them are gonna work tonight. But there’s a flicker there, just the smallest one, like she’s trying not to smile.

And that’s when it hits me: maybe, just maybe, this night isn’t completely fucked after all.

“License and registration, please,” she says, stepping a little closer to my window, close enough that I catch a whiff of her perfume—something clean, sharp, like citrus.

If only I could find the damn license.