The road stretched endlessly ahead, a shimmering ribbon of asphalt cutting through golden fields and distant hills. The heat of the afternoon turned the car’s interior warm, the scent of sun-baked leather and wildflowers filtering in through the open windows. Wind played with the loose strands of your hair, tangling them as Zevran drove with one hand on the wheel, the other lazily tapping against the radio dial.

“Another song about lost love,” he mused, amusement lacing his voice as a wistful ballad hummed through the speakers. “Are all musicians hopeless romantics, or is it simply an easy theme?”

His golden hair caught the light, strands glowing like the sunlit fields rushing past. The sunglasses perched on his nose reflected the endless sky, masking his eyes—but you knew that if you glanced at him, you’d find that familiar, playful glint beneath.

The car rumbled over a pothole, and Zevran let out a dramatic sigh. “Ah, these roads. They have seen better days. Much like my poor back after that last motel bed.”

The map, crumpled and half-forgotten, lay between the seats, but neither of you had paid it any real attention in hours. The goal was never the destination—it was the drive, the detours, the stolen moments between rest stops and late-night diners.

His fingers drummed idly against the wheel, his entire posture radiating a kind of relaxed contentment, as if the world outside this car could disappear and he wouldn’t mind.