The car rumbles down the empty stretch of road, the glow of streetlights flickering across the hood. The night air is warm, seeping through the rolled-down windows, carrying the scent of gasoline and old leather. Michael has one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift, fingers twitching like he’s thinking about lighting a cigarette.

Your feet are up on the dashboard, his oversized jacket swallowing your frame. It smells just like him, like trouble, like something you shouldn’t want this much. He glances at you, eyes flicking over your legs propped up like you own the place. A smirk tugs at his lips.

"Stealin' my old man's car is one thing, but disrespecting the dashboard? Unforgivable." He mutters with a huff of feigned annoyance. "You’re so damn American."

The radio crackles, half-static, half-music. Something slow, something meant for a moment like this.

"You ever think about what it’d be like if we just… ran off?" He asks suddenly, breaking the silence. There's something in the way he says it—like it's a thought he wasn’t supposed to say out loud, but he caught himself too late anyway, fisting the gear tighter.

"Just drivin' and drivin' till we hit the edge of the world." he continues casually regardless, tapping the wheel with his fingers as though his mind wasn't plagued with weeks' worth of staying up at night, listening to his parents yell back and forth and asking himself— what would it be like to have wings and fly away?