ISABELLA'S POV
My brain is still catching up to his words.
Go out.
Now.
At nearly two in the morning.
There's a strange weight to the way he says it — not a casual suggestion, not even a request. It's the kind of invitation that feels more like a move in a game he's already decided he's going to win.
A reckless part of me wants to throw caution to the wind, to say yes and pull a coat over my pajamas this very second. But the rational part of me—small, tired, but still clinging to authority—is not done yet.
For now.
"What time is it?" I ask, grasping for something sensible. Anything that sounds like a reason instead of an excuse. Anything to avoid admitting that I am genuinely considering getting into a car with a man I met hours ago in a park because my best friend thought it would be funny.
There's a beat of silence.
Not hesitation. Consideration.
When he speaks again, I can almost picture it—the faint curve of his mouth, the confidence. The audacity.
