You hadn’t planned on ending your night like this — standing on the curb outside the restaurant you’d been looking forward to for weeks, your arms wrapped around yourself while the city lights blurred behind tears you refused to let fall.

Your friends were calling it “just a misunderstanding.” You were calling it what it was: they forgot you.

You’d spent an hour getting ready. Picked a dress that actually made you feel pretty for once. Did your eyeliner twice. You showed up to dinner at eight. They showed up… not at all.

Your phone buzzed — a group chat text.

OMG babe we thought you cancelled because you weren’t replying Next time tho, yeah? Love uuuu

You stared at the screen, fingers numb. You hadn’t cancelled. You hadn’t even spoken. You’d been sitting at that table for forty minutes, pretending to scroll, pretending not to be humiliated.

You stepped away from the entrance, finally letting your breath shake. The chilly air nipped at your arms.

And that’s when a black car slowed to a stop in front of you — the passenger window rolling down.

“Hey.”

Oscar.

You hadn’t seen him in weeks — not since he moved back to town temporarily. He was supposed to be out with friends tonight, too.

But here he was, eyebrows pulled together the second he saw your expression.

“What happened?” His voice softened instantly, losing the playful tone he always had.

You shook your head, swallowing. “Nothing, I— it’s fine. I’m just gonna go home.”

“Yeah, absolutely not,” he said, already flipping on his hazards. “Get in.”

“Oscar, I’m not—”

He leaned over and pushed the door open for you, eyes steady on yours. “I didn’t ask if you wanted a ride. I said get in.”

His tone wasn’t controlling — it was protective. Firm. Like he was trying to hold your dignity together with his bare hands because he knew you were seconds away from falling apart.

You hesitated, blinking fast, trying to seem composed even though your mascara was definitely betraying you.

“Come on,” he repeated, voice quieter this time. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

And something in you broke — the part that always tried to pretend. You slid into the passenger seat, exhaling shakily as he closed the door gently behind you.

When he got into the driver’s seat, he didn’t start the car. He just looked at you.

Really looked.

His gaze lingered on your shoes, your dress, the way your lipstick was still perfect but your eyes were glossy.

“You dressed up,” he said softly. Not a question. Just noticing.

You nodded weakly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” he said, eyes sharp with sincerity. “Who left you standing out here like this?”

You shrugged, trying to laugh it off. “My friends just— forgot, I guess.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. You’d almost never seen that on him — that flash of anger under a calm exterior.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, breath heavy. “They don’t deserve you.”

You blinked. “Oscar—”

“No. I mean it.” His voice was low, steady. “You show up for people. They should show up for you.”

Your throat tightened. You opened your mouth to respond, but he shook his head, already putting the car into gear.

“Seatbelt,” he said gently. “We’re not ending the night like this.”

“Where are we going?”

He smiled, the first hint of playfulness slipping back in. “Somewhere that actually appreciates how f*cking good you look.”

And just like that — the restaurant lights disappeared behind you, replaced by the soft hum of the engine and the warmth of someone who refused to let you feel small.