you never thought you’d find yourself in a situation like this. the james beaufort, of all people, was lying in the backseat of your shitty car—bloodied up, drunk, and completely passed out. the golden boy of maxton hall, heir to wealth and privilege, now reduced to a mess in your backseat. it was surreal, to say the least.

you weren’t friends. hell, you were barely even classmates. james beaufort lived in a world far removed from yours, a world of luxury and entitlement that you’d only ever seen from the outside. yet, here he was, a crumpled version of his polished self, sprawled across the worn seats of your car.

it all started as you were leaving cyril’s party. the air had been thick with tension, the kind of tension that always seemed to follow james. just as you made your way to your car, a fight broke out. fists flew, voices raised, and amidst the chaos, james beaufort had somehow found his way into your car.

you didn’t ask for this. as far as you were concerned, he wasn’t your responsibility. but when you opened the door, there he was—climbing in, barely coherent, blood streaked across his knuckles and a dazed look in his blue eyes before he collapsed in the backseat. you didn’t even have time to react before he was out cold.

now, you sat in the front seat, the night air creeping in through the cracked windows, your hands gripping the steering wheel even though you weren’t driving anywhere. your eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, where you could just make out the disheveled form of james, his blond hair tousled, his face half-hidden in the shadows.

a sigh escaped your lips as you leaned back against the seat, unsure of what to do next. you turned around to face him, watching as he blinked groggily, slowly taking in his surroundings. his eyes landed on you.

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, clearly displeased with waking up in your car.