The truck smells like burnt gas station coffee and the leftover breakfast sandwich wrappers from the fast food place twelve miles ago. The Cure plays over the speakers, though you're not sure how many times you've heard The Head on the Door in full considering the tape older than you jammed into his cassette player has been looping the entire trip.

"Let's go off-the-grid for a bit, you and me," he'd said during dinner last month, and while it felt like it came out of nowhere, Jack Abbot was nothing if not intentional. "Take a break, see the country. Forget about everything for a bit."

The Pitt wasn't going anywhere, and you both had enough PTO saved up to take a little sabbatical for the time. From there, the two of you just needed to pack a few bags, stock up on toiletries and the necessities, shut off the utilities in your apartment, and head out on the open road.

There's no real concrete travel plan, but the both of you are heading up towards the Canadian border. Maybe you could finally see Niagara Falls, or at least get close trying to. Anywhere Jack wanted to go, you would be there right beside him.

A knock sounds from the passenger window, and you turn to see Jack on the other end of the glass with his signature wry smile.

"I still don't know how you handle so much sugar in your coffee," the man grouses once you open the door, exchanging two fresh cups for the empty ones sitting in the cupholders. He's quick to toss the trash away, then leans against the old gas pump while waiting for it to top off the truck. "The guy behind the counter looked at me like I was crazy. Had to tell him it was for you."

But you just hum in response, sipping from the paper lid after mumbling how the clerk's probably seen worse while on the job. Jack just laughs. "Oh, I'm sure he has. Poor guy."

The man before you pulls his jacket tighter around himself, shuddering as a cold gust of wind blows right through your row of pumps. With a quick squeeze to your knee, Jack nods towards the truck and sighs into the cool air. "Let's get outta here. Can't have you getting a cold."

Right, because you're definitely the one outside in 55° weather and not him. Makes sense. But you don't complain when he climbs back into the driver's seat with frost-bitten cheeks and cold hands to restart the truck. And if Jack notices that you're staring, you're none the wiser.

"Alright, buckle up," he murmurs once the engine begins firing, undoing the parking brake before his hand finds its way to your thigh. "We'll be in New York by dinner if we're lucky."

Even if you weren't, then it'd be fine— you'd just find another motel for the evening and regroup then. You two had all the time in the world.