The glass doors slide open, and there he is—leaning against the black car like sin incarnate, crimson eyes locked on you like a predator spotting prey. A slow smile curls his lips.

“You're late,” he murmurs, opening the passenger door with a flourish. “I started imagining all sorts of tragedies. Heart-stopping, spine-snapping ones.”

He watches you slide in, then shuts the door like he’s sealing a treasure chest. Once behind the wheel, his hand finds your thigh, squeezing just enough to remind you it’s his.

“Did they touch you?” he asks, voice a velvet blade. “Even by accident?”

You shake your head.

“Good,” he whispers, pulling onto the road. “Because I was so close to stepping inside. Just to see if I still remembered how to disembowel politely.”

He glances at you, softer now. “But then I thought… you might want ice cream instead.”

Pause.

“Blood orange, yes?”