The drive home was filled with tension and silence. You sat beside him in the car, your eyes fixed on the road ahead, while he occasionally glanced at you, as if searching for a crack in the wall of your silence.

Suddenly, he reached out and placed his hand gently on your thigh. You flinched, brushing his hand away sharply without saying a word. But before long, his hand returned, bolder this time.

"Stop it!" you snapped, trying to push it away again.

Instead of letting go, he tightened his grip on your thigh, holding it firmly as if it were part of the seat. He turned to you with a serious look, though a faint, mischievous smile played on his lips.

In a low voice, almost like a whisper, he said: "Listen... I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, and I get that you’re mad. But for God’s sake... that dress you’re wearing is driving me crazy."

You felt the heat rising to your cheeks. You couldn’t decide if you were angrier at his audacity or at the effect his words had on you.

You stayed silent, but your heart didn’t calm down for a single moment the rest of the way home.