It’s almost midnight when his truck pulls up, headlights slicing through the fog. You’re outside before he’s even thrown it into park — arms crossed, dress too short, eyes wide with guilt and something else you don’t want to name.

John steps out, boots crunching gravel. He doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you — slow, sharp, quiet — like he’s trying to figure out how the hell you ended up like this. In that dress. At that party. With those glassy eyes and a phone call that said “Please come get me… I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, pulling open the door for you. “Your dad doesn’t know, does he?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t want him to.”

“And you thought I was the better option?”

You slide into the passenger seat. “You always take care of me.”

He slams the door behind you with a soft grunt, jaw tight as he rounds the front of the truck. His knuckles are white on the wheel the moment he’s behind it. “Yeah. That’s the problem, sweetheart.”

He did have a bad streak of spoiling his best friend’s only daughter.

The ride is quiet — tense. The only sounds are the hum of the engine, the soft pull of your breath, and the way your thighs shift against the leather seat when you adjust your dress. You can feel his gaze flicker toward you, even when he tries not to look.

“You smell like cheap beer and someone else’s bad decisions,” he says roughly. “Lucky for you, I got there before someone else did.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Would you have let anyone touch me?”

He exhales hard through his nose. “Not if they wanted to keep their hands.”

You shouldn’t like the way that sounds. But you do.

When he finally pulls into your driveway, the tension is unbearable. You don’t move. Neither does he.

“You’re not wearing a coat,” he mutters, eyes on the exposed skin of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your thighs. “Not dressed for the kind of attention that party was giving you.”

Your lips part. “Wasn’t trying to get theirs.”

His jaw flexes. His grip on the steering wheel tightens — then loosens, slow, deliberate. He turns to look at you, really look, his voice dropping an octave.

“That supposed to mean something?”

You lean in, your breath catching. “I called you.”

That does something to him. Something dangerous.

In a blink, his hand is on the back of your seat, his body leaning closer, the scent of smoke and clean sweat and leather wrapping around you like a net. His voice is a low rasp, hot against your ear.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, sweetheart. I’m not a boy you can play with and forget about the next day.”

You look up at him, breathless. “I’m not a girl anymore.”

His eyes darken. His voice is just above a growl.

“Don’t tempt me, love.”

But you already did.

And the way his gaze drops to your lips says he’s thinking about crossing that line — even though he swore he never would.