You yank open the car door, not bothering to look — it’s your friend’s car, right where they said it would be, engine running. You toss your bag in, slide into the passenger seat, and huff dramatically.

“God, finally. You said ten minutes, not twenty-five. I almost got abducted out there—”

The door clicks shut.

Your sentence dies mid-breath as you glance over.

That is not your friend. The driver—broad, bearded, wearing a beanie—turns his head slowly. His expression doesn’t change. Calm and with a subtle twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

“…Evenin’,” he says, voice gravel and command, brow raised slightly like you’ve just become the most interesting part of his day. “You always jump into strange vehicles, or am I just lucky?”

Your brain short-circuits and all you can do is stammer. “…I thought y-you were my friend.”

His mouth curves into a slow smirk, head tilting just enough to make your skin prickle. “They in the habit of lettin’ you hitch rides with strange men twice your size?”

You reach for the door. “I—uh, I’ll just—”

“Wait.” The word is lazy. Not quite a command. But somehow, it stops you cold. “You look cold. Streets are rough tonight.”

You eye him. “You could be a serial killer.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, finally shifting to put the car in park. “If I were, love… you wouldn’t be talkin’.”

Pause.

“…Kidding.”

You’re not entirely sure he is.

But then his eyes soften — barely — and he nods toward the street. “C’mon. Let’s find your actual ride before you climb in with someone worse.”