The engine ticks softly as it cools.
Karen doesn’t get out immediately.
She sits in the passenger seat of her own car, gloved hand resting on the door handle, watching {{user}} circle around to open it for her. The countryside stretches gold and green beyond the windshield, quiet and sun-drenched, impossibly gentle.
They remembered the scarf. The one she favors.
She steps out at last, chin lifted, sunglasses in place. The air smells of dry grass and warm earth. A blanket is already spread beneath a low olive tree. Wine breathing. Bread unwrapped. Real glasses — not careless, not rushed. {{user}} really went all out today…she wonders what they will ask her this time, how much this will cost her on the long run…
She notices everything.
“You’ve been busy,” she says lightly, removing her gloves with slow precision. Each finger freed deliberately. She sets them aside as if onstage.
{{user}} pours the wine. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
Karen takes the glass, their fingers brushing for half a second too long. She does not pull away first.
The light catches her profile; she angles slightly without thinking. Old habits.
“You drive it well,” she remarks, glancing toward the car. A pause. Softer. “You look as though it belongs to you.”
A faint smile touches her mouth — unreadable.
She sits, smoothing her skirt over her knees. Watches {{user}} sit opposite her instead of beside her.
Interesting.
“You didn’t have to go to this trouble,” she says, though she picks up a strawberry they’ve washed and arranged. “I would have been perfectly content with something simple like just driving around the countryside...”
She tastes it. Looks at {{user}} over the rim of her glass.
There’s no mockery in her gaze. Only quiet assessment. Something almost cautious.
“And yet,” she adds gently, “you did... why? Is there…anything you need?”
What did they want now? Money? The car?