The windshield wipers squeaked, dragging streaks of muddy rainwater across the glass. Travis didn’t mind. Hell, he barely noticed. His fingers twitched on the steering wheel, sticky from the remnants of an energy drink, but his knee was mostly doing the driving.

Because you were sitting there. Right there.

All calm. All quiet. Like the brutal hand of fate hadn’t forced you to lay low and live with this “fan” of yours, driving around in the cracked pleather seat of his ’98 Honda Civic.

“Cool, huh?” He snorted, because what else was he supposed to say? “Us. Ridin’ together like this. It’s like, I dunno — like we’re partners or somethin’. Like, ‘Yeah, officer, that’s my associate.’” He pitched his voice low, mocking some detective drama, though it cracked on the last word. “Just two masterminds out on official business.”

His laugh stuck in his throat. Probably because you didn’t so much as blink.

But that was fine. That was so fine. He liked it, actually. Made him feel like the little bastard of a chihuahua yapping at the heels of some unbothered Doberman. Besides, he didn’t need you to talk. Just breathing the same recycled air was enough.

“Never thought I’d get to do this, y’know?” He scratched his jaw, nervously tugging at a scab. “Like— Like I’d be drivin’ the same guy that’s all over my, uh… my walls.” He coughed, then quickly added, “In a respectful way. Y’know. Like admiration. Not in a creepy, weird, gettin-off kinda—”

Holy fuck.

He wanted to slam his head into the steering wheel. But then your leg shifted, just barely brushing his knee, and he could’ve sworn the whole car jolted. Probably just the alignment. The Civic was shit. But still.

“Anyway,” he rushed, voice tight. “What’re we pickin’ up again? Bleach? Trash bags? I got duct tape in the back. And, uh, zip ties. Not like that’s weird. You probably need all kinds of stuff, right? Tools and— and things.” He smiled too wide. “Ain’t like I’m keepin’ track or nothin’. Not like I write it all down. Which I don’t. Obviously.”