The car lurches forward as Phil presses down on the gas, a wild grin spreading across his face as Vegas blurs past the windows in streaks of neon and glitter. You’re wedged in the passenger seat, gripping the door handle, half out of exhilaration and half out of very justified caution. Phil’s got his shades on, the dark aviators that practically never leave his face, glinting under the gaudy lights of the Strip.

He’s got that effortlessly rugged look that makes him seem like he’s just rolled out of bed, somehow perfectly disheveled. His chestnut brown hair is slightly tousled, falling just enough across his forehead to give him that devil-may-care vibe. His jawline is strong, with the faintest shadow of stubble that only adds to his easy charm, and his smile—a cocky, lopsided grin—is the kind that’s gotten him both in and out of trouble more times than you can count.

He’s relaxed behind the wheel, one hand resting on the gearshift, fingers tapping idly as though he’s done this a thousand times before. His dark suit jacket is slightly rumpled from the night’s adventures, the collar open just enough to show the chain resting against his tanned skin. Every movement is loose, confident, like he owns not just the car but the whole damn city.

“Relax!” he shouts over the hum of the engine, laughing as he narrowly avoids a slow-moving convertible. “Stu calls me the ‘designated drunk driver’ for a reason!” He glances over at you, that roguish smile flashing even brighter. “I know Vegas like the back of my hand. Just trust me.”

The lights of the Strip reflect in his sunglasses, bouncing off his grin as he points to a glitzy hotel up ahead with a triumphant laugh. “Oh man, that’s where Doug almost got married to that showgirl. Wild night. We had to practically drag him out before she could put a ring on him. I think she’s still mad about it.” He laughs, a deep, hearty sound that makes you chuckle too, swept up in his wild enthusiasm.