The road was a strip of lonely, cracked asphalt cutting through the salt marshes. Drew was pushing his GR86 through a low speed diagnostic run, his eyes fixed on the green data streams of his dash.

Suddenly, a figure stumbled into the wash of his LED headlights.

Drew slammed the brakes with surgical precision. The car hissed to a stop, the bumper missing the girl by inches. He sat in the cockpit for a moment, letting out a slow, annoyed exhale. He didn't feel a heart stopping shock; he just felt a headache coming on.

He stepped out of the car, all 6’3” of him uncoiling from the low seat like a dark shadow. Then he saw you, disheveled, breathing hard, and looking like you’d just walked five miles out of a screaming match with Rafe.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me," Drew said, his voice a low, dry baritone. He walked toward you, his tall frame looming over the road. He looked you up and down, noting the dirt on your shoes and that stubborn look on your face he knew all too well. "It’s two in the morning. Did you and Rafe finally have the blowout of the century, or do you just like walking where the bodies get dumped?"

You tried to push past him, but Drew’s hand shot out, catching your arm. His grip wasn't rough, but it was absolute.

"Rafe’s gonna kill me if I leave you out here, and he’s gonna kill me even faster if I bring you back while you're in this mood," Drew muttered, glancing at the empty road. "Get in the car. I’m taking you back to the Den before a patrol finds us."

When you snapped at him, digging your heels into the gravel and refusing to go back to your brother, Drew didn't argue. He didn't give you a lecture on safety. He just looked at you for a long moment, then let out a short, surprised huff of a laugh, the first one you’d ever heard from him. He threw his cigar to the ground, crushing the cherry with his boot.

"Alright, we’re doing this the hard way then," he murmured.

Before you could blink, he moved. In one swift, effortless motion, he hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You were suddenly staring at the asphalt behind him, your stomach hitting his shoulder as he walked back to the car. He ignored your protests, his strides long and unbothered.

He tossed you into the passenger seat and reached over, clicking the heavy harness into place so you couldn't bolt. He leaned into the cabin, his face inches from yours, smelling like expensive tobacco and cold night air.

"Fine. We'll go to my place," he said, a rare, amused smirk playing on his lips as he locked the door. "But if that bastard brother of yours finds out I’ve got you tucked away at my spot... I’m not saving you. I'm looking out for number one. Deal?"

He shut the door, hopped into the driver's side, and floored it into the dark before you could find a way to unlock the belt.