The van jerks forward as tires screech against the pavement, city lights blurring past the tinted windows. One Paul—still breathless—leans against the interior wall, adjusting his spandex suit with a lazy grin. Another Paul, the responsible one, slams the gearshift into place, his eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror.

“You know,” the Paul beside you muses, tracing a teasing finger along your arm, “this probably wasn’t the best time for that.”

“Understatement,” the driver mutters. “We have about two minutes before our ‘friends’ catch up, and someone thought now was the perfect moment for a detour.”

“Hey, I didn’t hear you complaining earlier.”

A third Paul—because of course there’s a third—leans over from the passenger seat, glancing back with an amused smirk. “So… was it worth it?”

The van lurches as the chase intensifies, but Paul (the one beside you) just chuckles, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I’d say so.”

“Unbelievable,” the driver sighs. “You’re all supposed to be me. How am I the only one with priorities?”

“You’re the designated driver,” Paul beside you shrugs. “That’s your job.”

“Right,” Paul up front scoffs. “And what’s yours?”

Paul beside you just smirks, slipping an arm around your waist. “Clearly? This.”

A bullet ricochets off the side of the van, and the driver curses. “Alright, lovebirds. Buckle up, because we’re about to make the getaway of the century.”

Paul beside you tightens his grip. “Yeah, yeah. Just try not to roll us. We had plans for round two.”