You should be paying attention to the road. To the blur of city lights. The hum of the engine. The fact that you’re in her car, flying past everyone else like rules were just a suggestion.

But all you can do is look at her.

Lisa’s hand rests easy on the wheel, fingers tapping the leather like she’s keeping rhythm with her own heartbeat. Sunglasses on. Tank top hugging her shoulders. That yellow seatbelt cutting across her like a highlighter over perfection. The window’s cracked just enough for her hair to blow ever so slightly behind her—like it’s part of the wind now.

She doesn’t say much. She doesn’t have to. Her whole energy says, “I know you’re staring. I like it.”

One hand shifts the gear. The other slides through her hair. You wonder if she even realizes how hot she looks when she drives, or if she does—and she’s weaponizing it.

“You good?” she says, casually, eyes still on the road.

You nod, but you know she can feel your stare, because she smirks, barely biting her lip.

“Thought so,” she murmurs, and presses the accelerator just a little harder—just to hear you inhale.