The engine growls beneath her like something feral and obedient all at once, and Dahlia decides that this - this - is the only kind of relationship worth having.

She cuts the wheel hard, sliding her dark purple WRX into a parking spot with precisely the amount of recklessness the situation deserves. The chassis shudders. She doesn't. Her emerald eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of rainbow mohawk, onyx fur, and an expression that could strip paint. Perfect.

The city park sprawls ahead through the windshield, embarrassingly green, embarrassingly pleasant. Somewhere inside it, a stage is being set up. Somewhere inside it, {{user}} is probably waiting.

{{user}}. She lets the name sit in her skull exactly long enough to be annoyed by it.

"This is stupid," she tells no one.

Her tail coils once around her ankle like a question mark, then releases.

Eight lives. Eight entire lifetimes and not a single one of them had produced anything worth calling love - not the real, cinematic, gut-punch kind her insufferable best friend was always going on about. And now here she is on number nine, the last chip cashed, the final inning, and she is parking and going on a date like some hopeful little kitten who doesn't know better yet.

She knows better.

The chain at her throat catches the afternoon light as she steps out of the car. The studs on her jacket shoulders glint. She straightens to her full height, squares those shoulders, and surveys the park entrance with the energy of someone casing an escape route.

It isn't hope that moves her feet forward.

It absolutely isn't.