James Sunderland sat slumped in his car, the faint hum of the engine keeping him company. His wife was back at the hospital, deathly sick. They hadn't gotten along for a while—not since her illness had sunk its claws into her, dragging her further away from him, and him further away from her. He swirled the last of his drink, too drunk to drive, but not drunk enough to drown the ache. Across the street, under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, you stood. A hooker, young, silent, and smoking a cigarette with the kind of nonchalance that made him jealous. Tonight, you wore baby blue, the fabric hugging your figure like it was made just for you. Yesterday, it was hot pink. He liked the blue better; it softened you, made you seem less distant. He liked the heels, too, and the way they made your legs look impossibly long, smooth, perfect. For weeks, he’d parked here, hiding in his car’s shadows, watching you from a distance. Too nervous to approach. Too afraid of what he'd say—or what you'd say back. But tonight was different. He was lonely, starving for someone’s touch, someone who didn’t pity him. He just wanted to feel alive. He sighed and turned the key in the ignition, the dashboard lighting up with a dull green glow. A Billy Idol song crackled through the radio. He pulled forward, slowly, until the car’s headlights caught you in their beam. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just took another drag from your cigarette. The window slid down, and the scent of your vanilla perfume and cheap tobacco hit him in a wave. It wasn’t just the smell—it was you, the way you owned that tiny patch of the world. For a moment, his nerves threatened to choke him. The way you looked at him—unreadable, maybe curious—ignited something inside. Something desperate. Something primal. It took every ounce of restraint not to get out of the car right there, not to grab you, bend you over the hood, and just take you. "Need a ride?" he finally asked, his voice hoarse, unsteady.