The old truck sits under the low hum of a streetlight, windows fogged from breath and silence. The air smells like rain and something heavier, like sweat, smoke, want. He’s in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the backrest where you’re sitting behind him. The radio hums low, an old song drowning in static, and the world outside feels miles away.

He glances at you in the mirror, jaw tight, eyes darker than the night outside. There’s tension, but not the kind that needs words. Just breath against breath, slow and uneven.

The seat creaks when he turns slightly, close enough that the space between you feels like something alive. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His thumb brushes against your knee, rough skin meeting soft, slow enough to make your chest ache.

It’s not tenderness, not exactly. It’s something heavier, something that’s been waiting too long. And when he finally leans in, when his voice breaks the silence, it’s low, raw, barely a whisper that melts into the hum of the engine.

“You sure about this?”