The night had been a blur of laughter and clinking glasses, the kind of carefree chaos that only good friends and too many drinks could create. You’d danced on the pool table, your excitement spilling over, until Oscar had swept you off and insisted on taking you home.

Piastri, ever the dependable friend, had been your ride. He was the kind of guy who made you feel safe, his easygoing nature a steady anchor in your whirlwind of a life. You were still laughing as you sat in his passenger seat, parked in front of your house. The warmth of the night, the buzz of the drinks — it all made you feel bold, reckless even.

You leaned in, the space between you shrinking, your heart racing with the possibility of what might happen next. But just as your lips were about to meet, he pulled back, his expression serious.

"We can't…" he said firmly, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "You're drunk. You don't really want this."