She's claimed the seat like it was built for her — bare legs stretched across the dash, window cracked, hair catching the rush of moving air. The seatbelt cuts a diagonal across her chest, doing very little to contain anything.

You keep your eyes on the road. Mostly. The speedometer climbs each time she shifts position, each time her fingers trail lazily up her own thigh like she has nowhere urgent to be.

She glances over with that particular smile — unhurried, certain — the kind that makes you miss your exit on purpose.