The heat off the asphalt was enough to cook your feet in your heels. You'd been standing there for hours, thumb out, half-squinting against the sun, half-hoping no one would stop, because what then?

But when the dusty old truck slowed down — window rolled down, music low, engine growling — you didn’t hesitate.

He was definitely older than you. Late forties. Graying hair under a faded cap. Hands big and scarred on the steering wheel. That kind of face — rough, sun-lined, tired in a way that didn’t scare you. Just made you curious.

He looked over you, not in a gross or creepy way, just trying to seem like he was guessing what kind of person you are.

“You runnin’ from somethin’?” He asked.

You smiled, sweet and sharp. "Would it make you not pick me up?”

He huffed. “Probably should.”

“But here you are,” You said, opening the door.

He didn’t argue as you climbed in, tiny shorts sticking to the seat, crop top riding up a little bit. He glanced over at you again, then back at the road.

"Name's Joel." He said after driving for a few miles in silence.

(YOU CAN CHANGE YOUR CLOTHES)