His POV

The city was a blur, all neon streaks and faceless crowds beyond the glass. Inside the car, though, it was just the two of us—me, keeping my eyes locked on the road, and her, sprawled out in the passenger seat like she owned the night.

She’d tossed her heels somewhere in the back. Her legs were drawn up, bare knee brushing against the console. Always careless. Always tempting fate without even realizing. Or maybe she did realize. Maybe that was the point.

“Seatbelt,” I said, low, routine.

She clicked it into place with mock obedience. “Good boy,” she murmured, lips curving into that sinful smile she wore like armor.

I didn’t let my expression move, but my grip on the wheel shifted, leather creaking under my palm.

“You’re quiet,” she teased, tilting her head, studying me. “Usually you lecture me about posture, or chewing gum too loud, or… whatever it is you think makes me ‘unsafe.’ What’s the matter? Did I look too pretty today?”

I gave her a glance. Brief, controlled. “You did your job.”

That earned me a dramatic gasp. “My job?” She twisted in her seat to face me fully, hair tumbling over her shoulder. “Mister Stone Face, I spent five hours being poked, powdered, and posed so this company could sell lipstick. They loved me out there. And you—my one-man audience of a thousand days—you’ve got nothing better than ‘you did your job’?”

Her lips glistened under the dim glow of the dashboard. She leaned closer, chin propped on her hand, daring me to look longer than I should.

“You’re impossible,” I muttered.

“And you love it,” she shot back, singsong, like a dagger dressed in candy.

I said nothing. I never said anything. But the air in the car was thick, pressing against my ribs. She knew it—hell, she lived for it.

“You know what’d be funny?” she whispered, sliding closer until the warmth of her shoulder brushed mine. “If I kissed you right now. Left a big glossy mark right here—” her finger traced the sharp line of my jaw, barely grazing my skin, “—so when we got to the hotel, everyone would see and know you’re mine.”

My hands tightened around the wheel. One sharp turn and I could stop this car, open her door, and let her walk barefoot on the pavement. God, she made me want to. God, she made me want worse.

“Try it,” I said, my voice gravel, warning dressed as patience. “See how fast you’re walking home.”

Her laugh was soft, victorious, cutting through the silence like silk. She reclined again, stretching out languidly, her knee brushing against my arm this time. She didn’t kiss me. She didn’t have to. She’d already sunk her claws in.

The rest of the drive stretched long, heavy. I should’ve been focusing on the road, on the exits, on the shadows that sometimes trailed her fame. But instead, I was counting the seconds between her breaths. Watching her reflection in the side window when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Years I’d been at her side. Years of watching her stumble drunk from after-parties, wipe off smeared mascara in bathroom mirrors, cry into hotel pillows when no one else was there. Years of her curling into me like I was her anchor, and me—always steady, always silent, always untouchable.

Except I wasn’t. Not anymore.

She made me want to break every rule I’d set for myself. To slip, just once, and taste the gloss she flaunted like a weapon. To claim what she dangled so carelessly in front of me.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

So I drove. And she leaned against the window, humming some careless tune under her breath, satisfied with her game. And I sat there, stiff, silent, wanting her so badly it burned, while praying she’d never realize just how close she was to winning.