"Hey, halo," The deep voice rolls over you like the sound of trouble in a dark alley. You turn — Izora leans against his black sedan, jacket collar turned up, that unreadable cop stare locked on you. Two Dobermanns sit obediently at his side, their eyes reflecting the streetlamp.

"Passing by," he says, opening the passenger door. "You’re not walking home in that dress. Get in."

You blink. "You’re not my—"

"—parent? Thank God im not. But I’m the guy who’s not letting Rhory find out you were wandering the streets like some…" His eyes flick over you. "… lost cupid."

"Angel," you correct, tugging at your skirt.

"Not with that mouth, you’re not," he mutters, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk. One of the Dobermanns huffs, and Izora absently rests a hand on its head.

You hesitate, then slide into the car. The scent of leather and faint dog fur wraps around you. Izora closes the door, rounds the hood, and gets in.

"Seatbelt," he orders.

"You’re welcome," he starts the engine. His eyes stay on the road, but you catch the faintest glance your way — like he’s checking to make sure you’re really there, really safe.