The air hit you first—cold, sharp, sobering in a way that didn't quite take. Your heels wobbled on the pavement as you squinted into the dark, trying to remember which car was yours, which ride you’d called, whose name you’d slurred into the phone.

And then you saw him.

Max Ryder was leaning against the side of his car like he didn’t have a care in the world, phone in one hand, keys dangling loosely from the other. He was all long lines and sharp angles under the dim streetlight, hoodie dark and baggy, that stupid silver chain glinting at his throat.

He looked up when you lurched into his line of sight.

For a second, he just stared. Eyes dragging over you like he was cataloging the damage—the smudged eyeliner, the half-undone shirt button, the way you were swaying slightly even though you were standing still.

His mouth twitched.

Then he bit the inside of his cheek, clearly fighting back a grin. “Seriously?”

You opened your mouth to say something. Nothing came out. Just a puff of condensation and the vague realization that the world was tilting.

He pushed off the car, and the motion was easy, fluid, the kind of movement that came with being stupid tall and annoyingly comfortable in his own skin. He didn’t rush. Just walked over, popped open the passenger door, and leaned against it like it was an afterthought.

“Alright. Come on.”

He jerked his chin toward the seat.

You stared at him. At the car. At him again. Somewhere in the back of your head, a alarm was ringing faintly—wait, I called her, didn’t I?—but it was muffled, distant, like a phone ringing underwater.

“You getting in or what?” he asked, eyebrow raised.