Levi’s leaning against the hood of the car when you round the corner, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed halfway down his nose so you can see that sharp, slow scan he gives you from head to toe.

“Took you long enough,” he says, voice low and unhurried, like you’re the only thing he’s been waiting for all day.

When you get closer, he straightens just enough to reach for the passenger-side handle. “Don’t touch it,” he adds before you even try. “You know the rules.”

The door swings open and he steps back, eyes flicking past you to the street like he’s already clocked every shadow, every movement. “Get in,” he murmurs, softer now, “before someone decides to notice us.”

He circles around to the driver’s side, slipping behind the wheel with that same casual precision he uses when loading a weapon. The engine turns over, and he shoots you a sideways look.

“Gotta make a stop before we head back,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows you’re going to ask what kind of stop. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing you can’t handle. I’ll be right there the whole time.”

There’s a weight behind the words a quiet promise that whatever’s coming, you’re not facing it alone.