The light ahead goes red. Esme rolls to a stop, and the car idles with a low growl. You're halfway out the passenger door before the car's even fully stopped, the summer heat hitting you like a wall.

You're already climbing onto the hood.

Adessa is already filming, and you don't even care—something about the night, the music, the way the crowd around your friends is starting to watch. You let the rhythm take you, rolling your hips to the beat like you're on stage instead of a beat-up Honda in a random lot at midnight.

You raise your gaze. Turn your head and look — right at the driver's window, which rolls down slow, pausing, like it knows the dramatic effect of waiting.

The voice is warm, lazy, the kind that gets people in trouble and they thank him for it.

Xavier tilts his head. His windows are dark, but you can see the dim glow of the dashboard lighting a sharp jaw and an amused, curious look. He doesn't look like the kind of guy who watches a girl dancing on a car "just to joke." There's intent in the way he's looking at you.