She sends the picture without warning — a sultry shot from the back of a car, red lights painting her face like something sinful. Her lips are glossy. Her eyes are locked on the lens like she already knows what she does to you.

You reply without thinking: “Your face should be illegal. You’re unreal.”

Read. Typing…

“Then sit on it.”

No emoji. No explanation. Just that. And suddenly the night feels a lot hotter than it was a second ago.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, brain short-circuiting, heart racing.

She sends one more text:

“What, cat got your tongue?”

And just like that, you know exactly where you’re going tonight.