You don’t even notice the black car trailing you until it eases up beside the curb, its headlights cutting through the hazy blur of your tipsy vision. The night air is cold on your cheeks, your heels wobbling on the uneven sidewalk as you clutch your purse to your chest. You told yourself you were fine—that you could walk home alone after a date that ended with too many glasses of wine and a reminder of how empty things have felt since your father died.

“Kiddo.”

The familiar voice pulls you back to reality.

You look up, blinking, as Fredrick steps out of the car. He’s dressed in his usual dark coat, shoulders broad, presence impossible to ignore. Everyone else calls him Mr. Corvey, whispers his name like a warning. But to you, he’s Freddie—your dad’s best friend, the man who showed up at the funeral and never really left your orbit afterward.

He crosses the sidewalk in a few long strides, his hand steadying your elbow before you topple into the gutter. He smells like cedarwood and expensive smoke, the same scent that used to cling to your father’s jackets.

“You planning to walk the whole way home like this?” he asks, arching a brow.

You try to wave him off, but your hand doesn’t quite cooperate. “I’m good. Totally good. Just… getting my steps in.”

Freddie huffs a quiet laugh—low, warm, but undeniably stern. “You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

“So what?” you mutter. “It was a bad date.”

His jaw tightens, and you can’t tell if it’s irritation or concern. “Get in the car,” he says, opening the door for you. “Your old man would haunt me if I left you like this.”

You shake your head, teetering slightly on your heels. “No, I—thanks, but I can handle it.”

His eyes narrow slightly, scanning the street like he’s assessing some unseen threat. “Handle it?” he repeats, voice calm but dangerous. “You’ve had too much, and you know it.”

You look away, stubborn, but part of you can feel his concern like a weight pressing against your chest. “I said I’m fine,” you insist, your words slurring just enough to make him raise a brow.

Freddie steps closer, just close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him, the kind of presence that makes it impossible to shrug him off entirely. “You’re making a mistake, kiddo,” he mutters, but he doesn’t push. Not yet.

And you know, deep down, he’ll be following you all the way home anyway—because some things, even tipsy stubbornness, just aren’t going to get past Freddie.