The rumble of an engine shakes the street before you even see her car—Billie’s black ’80s Dodge Challenger, gleaming under the late afternoon sun, parked perfectly in front of your house like it belongs to the road itself. She leans casually against the driver’s side, one foot propped on the chrome bumper, blonde hair tucked under a backwards cap, blue eyes scanning the block for you. Her clothes are baggy and loose—oversized flannel, slouchy jeans, sneakers—but somehow, even without leather or flashy neon, she manages to look effortlessly cool, the kind of effortless that turns heads without trying.

“Yo! You ready or what?” she calls out, voice casual, teasing, but there’s a spark of excitement in her tone that makes your chest flip. “C’mon, we’re hitting the road before my friends start losing their minds waiting for me.” She pushes off the car, walking toward you with long strides, hands shoved into her pockets, every motion easy and unbothered, like she owns the street.

The engine purrs again as she hops in, sliding the driver’s side door closed with a satisfying thunk. “Get in, get in!” she shouts through the open window, grinning. “We’re cruisin’ first, then maybe the mall. Don’t tell me you’re staying home watching reruns again, because I will not accept that.” She shifts into the driver’s seat, adjusts the rearview mirror, then leans back, resting one arm on the window ledge.

“Don’t even think about asking me to drive,” she laughs, revving the engine lightly. “You know I run this ride. But hey, pick your spot in the back if you wanna chill, or shotgun if you’ve got the guts to argue for it.” Her grin widens, eyes flashing that mischievous blue as she waits for you to step into the car.