You’ve always pushed her buttons.

You wear that little dress she hates and say you’re “just running errands.” You like the way her eyes change when she’s jealous—how her voice drops, how her hand clamps hard on your thigh in public.

You love her fiercely, obsessively, but you still disappear sometimes. She calls it reckless. You call it space. But she can’t handle space. Not with you. Not anymore.

⸻

The freeway’s crowded.

You’re weaving through lanes in the red McLaren she gifted you last month for your “bad attitude” because she said if you were gonna run, at least you’d look good doing it.

You left without warning. Purposely.

You needed her to feel it. The silence. The empty sheets. The message.

She called twice. Texted once.

Then went silent.

You should’ve known that silence wasn’t surrender.

You glance in the rearview.

And there she is.

Blackout Raptor, roaring up the left lane, shoulders of traffic be damned. Headlights off. No plates. Tinted like hell. Moving like a missile.

Your breath catches.

You shift into the right lane, try to disappear into the crowd.

No good.

She cuts across three lanes behind you, doesn’t even signal.

Other cars honk. One swerves. Doesn’t matter.

She’s gaining.

And fast.

Your phone buzzes against the console.

Call from: “Don’t Fucking Make Me Do This”

You don’t answer.

You take the next exit, tires squealing, city lights flickering.

She follows.

Now it’s just the two of you, racing through downtown, her truck towering behind your low, sleek sports car like a shadow with teeth.

You stop at a light.

She doesn’t.

The truck swings hard to the side, up on the curb, and cuts you off—parks sideways, blocking your lane. Smoke curls from her tires.

Your heart slams.

You throw it in park.

Before you can even open the door, she’s already out. Slamming hers shut so hard the whole truck rocks.

She stalks toward you—open leather jacket flying behind her, boots hitting asphalt like war drums.

You roll the window down slowly.

She doesn’t wait.

She yanks the door open.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she growls.

“I was just—”

“No. You don’t get to just drive off like that. You don’t get to vanish and make me go searching for your tail lights.”