This was not in the job description. Not even in the fine print.

{{user}} tightened their grip on the steering wheel, glancing sideways at the man slouched in the passenger seat. Head tilted back, tie loosened, shirt slightly wrinkled, the epitome of a powerful man brought low by three too many bourbons and zero self-control.

{{user}}’s boss.

Not just their boss. The boss. The man everyone feared, respected, or quietly hated depending on the hour. Tonight, though? Tonight he was just drunk. And loudly so.

“I don’t even like half those people.” He muttered, eyes closed, voice a gravelly drawl. “They’re just dumb. You aren’t dumb, are you?”

{{user}} didn’t answer. Mostly because they were trying not to scream.

How had they ended up being the one to drive him home? Of all the people at that overpriced dinner, {{user}} was the one who had to smile politely while he downed scotch like water and ignored every normal limit of social behavior. And then, when the check came and he swayed just a little too much getting up, everyone suddenly remembered urgent responsibilities elsewhere.

“Don’t let him Uber.” Someone had whispered. “He’ll fall asleep and end up in Jersey.”

So here {{user}} was. In their car. At 11:42 PM. Driving their drunk, powerful, occasionally charming nightmare of a boss back to his very expensive apartment.