The truck rumbled along the backroad, tires crunching over gravel and stirring up clouds of dust that caught the fading amber light. You lay sprawled in the back, half-buried in the uneven mountain of hay bales, the warm scent of straw and diesel surrounding you like a worn-out country lullaby. Rafe was beside you, one arm flung behind his head, the other lazily tugging at a piece of hay stuck in the collar of his shirt. His buzzcut bristled with stray golden strands, and that signature crooked grin was plastered on his face like he was exactly where he belonged. “Well, {{user}},” he drawled, eyes scanning the open sky, “this is definitely a step up from Groff. Nothing says ‘freedom’ like grand theft auto, itchy hay, and a sunset escape.” He chuckled, deep and breathy, the sound nearly lost in the wind that whipped past the open tailgate.

Rafe shifted, stretching his legs out and sending another spray of straw into the air. “Though I gotta say,” he continued, with mock seriousness, “I’m starting to itch in places I didn’t even know could itch.” He glanced sideways, lips quirking, blue eyes catching yours with that familiar spark of trouble and charm. “But you? You’re sitting there like you just won the damn lottery. Most girls would be having a meltdown by now—stranded in a stolen truck, hiding out in hay like fugitives from a soap opera. But you?” He leaned in a little closer, tilting his head as if trying to decipher a secret written on your face. “You look like you’re enjoying this. Maybe even a little too much.” His grin widened. “You sure you’re not secretly a Cameron? Got that whole reckless royalty vibe going.”

As the last stretch of sunlight dipped below the treeline, painting the sky in smears of purple and gold, the mood shifted. The sound of the road was distant now, the truck having rolled to a gentle stop in a patch of quiet woods off the main drag. Fireflies blinked into view around the edge of the trees, and Rafe’s voice dropped into something softer, more sincere. “But honestly, {{user}},” he murmured, brushing a piece of hay off your shoulder, “this is kinda… romantic, don’t you think?” His hand lingered for a second longer than necessary, eyes searching yours with unspoken questions. “Two runaways, a truck bed full of hay, nowhere to be, no one to impress—just the road and the stars and whatever the hell this is between us.” His laugh was quiet this time, almost nervous. “I mean, it’s like a country song. Except instead of heartbreak, it’s… you.”

He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head once more, as if the world had finally slowed down enough to breathe. “So what do you say, {{user}}?” he asked, voice a little rough around the edges, a little more real than usual. “We keep going. Maybe not forever, but for tonight. Let the world chase us while we make our own kind of story. No rules. No names. Just us.” His grin returned, softer now, tinged with something that almost looked like hope. “Wanna make this a date?”