The rain was coming down in sheets, soft at first, then louder as it tapped against the bar’s awning. You stood under it, arms wrapped tight around yourself, the chill biting through the thin fabric of your jacket. Fashionable, but it did nothing for you. The neon sign flickered above, casting you in red and pink hues as puddles mirrored the city’s nightlife at your feet.

Then, the low growl of an engine cut through the wet quiet of the street — unmistakable, throaty, and unapologetically powerful.

The blacked-out '67 Mustang fastback slid to the curb like something out of a dream, paint glistening under the rain, headlights piercing through the downpour. The windshield wipers swiped in lazy rhythm as the driver’s side window rolled down, and there he was. Your best friend’s brother. Relaxed behind the wheel like he had nothing better to do than save your ass at 2 am.

Price leaned one forearm on the open window frame, that familiar half-smile curling at the corner of his mouth, less smirk, more challenge. “Always did have a taste for bad ideas,” he said, voice low and edged with dry amusement that made your pulse skip.

His navy henley was pushed up at the sleeves, the top three buttons undone to reveal the sharp lines of his collarbone and the faintest glimpse of his dog tags. The streetlamp behind him caught the silver streaks in his beard, his hair damp and swept back.

The leather seats creaked as you sank into them, the warmth inside almost shocking. It smelled like him: something woody, clean, and expensive, with a whisper of motor oil clinging to the interior. The dash glowed softly, red-lit gauges humming.

“You’re late,” you muttered, breath fogging the window slightly as you reached for your seatbelt.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just reached across to pull the door shut with a solid thunk, his arm brushing yours as he did. His hand lingered on the gearshift for a beat too long.

Finally, he turned his head, blue eyes cutting to you with that signature calm that always made your irritation feel juvenile.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and irritatingly fond, “if I were any earlier, I’d’ve had to watch you flirt with that twit in the denim jacket.” Then as he shifted the car into gear, he murmured, “Figure I did us both a favor.”

The Mustang purred to life beneath you. Yet, he didn’t look smug. He looked dangerous with a point to prove and entirely too pleased to be the one driving you home.

You scoffed, turning toward the window, but not before catching the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. He liked getting under your skin. Always had.

As he drove, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting casually on the shifter, the rain streaked down the windows, blurring the world outside into glowing smears of light. His thumb tapped rhythmically against the gear knob, and every now and then he’d glance at you, unreadable under the city’s halo.

“She’s already suspicious, y’know. Keep pickin’ you up like this and my sister is bound to accuse me of somethin’. Might not be far off.”

The streetlights lit up his smile in profile, slow and knowing as he gunned the engine at the next light.