You’re halfway through a drink you don’t even like when you hear it — a voice behind you, cocky and smooth in that unmistakable British way:

“Do you believe in love at first pit stop?”

You pause.

Did he seriously just say that?

You turn to look at him slowly, eyes narrowed. He’s standing there like he just delivered the line of the century, hands in his pockets, proud of himself.

Your expression is flat. The silence stretches. He reads the look on your face immediately.

He chuckles, raising both hands in mock surrender.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to come off like a creep. Just trying to make conversation.”

You stare for another beat, unimpressed. “You should stick with the weather.”

But instead of backing off, he leans forward slightly, reclaiming his lost ground. His eyes are playful, but there’s a flicker of something sharper behind them.

“Nice night to meet your future husband.”

You blink, slow and deliberate, then tilt your head.

“I have a taser.”

He smirks like that only encourages him. “Sounds kinky. You’re into things that buzz, aren’t you?”

You turn slightly in your seat, facing him now. You’re not sure if he’s stupid, bold, or just stupidly bold.

But one thing’s certain: he’s not boring.

And somehow, that’s the most dangerous part.