The road stretches ahead, dark and empty. The wipers drag lazily across the windshield, smearing the light rain into streaks. I keep my hands on the wheel, fingers loose but steady, eyes forward. I don’t look at her. I don’t need to. She’s there. That’s enough.

She shifts in the seat beside me, adjusting her dress—expensive, but not new. There’s a perfume on her, something floral, but faint. Like she put it on hours ago and didn’t bother refreshing it. She smells like a hotel lobby. Like worn leather seats and cigarette smoke that lingers on skin.

You don’t talk much, do you?

Her voice is smooth, but there’s an edge underneath. Not nervousness. Just curiosity.

I exhale through my nose.

No.

Silence. Not uncomfortable, not tense—just there. Like a quiet room with no clocks ticking. She studies me; I can feel it. Most people don’t look too closely. She does.

So, what’s your deal?

she asks, turning toward me

You don’t seem like the type who needs to pay to get laid.

I keep my eyes on the road. The streetlights flicker past in steady intervals, casting shadows over my hands, my knuckles, the old scar that runs across them.

I don’t.