Your arm’s hanging out the open window, breeze rushing against your skin. You’re cruising at a steady pace, music humming low, your sunglasses sliding slightly down your nose. Up ahead, you spot a black ’87 Pontiac Firebird weaving through the lanes with too much confidence to be casual. Sleek. Loud. Fast.

It pulls up beside you.

The Firebird stays parallel. Matching your speed.

The windows are already down. That unmistakable muscle car smell—burnt rubber, sun-heated leather, cigarette smoke—hits you as the wind shifts. You glance over.

He’s got one hand on the top of the wheel, the other resting loose on the gearshift. No music on his end, just the low roar of the engine.

He looks at you.

Not a glance. A look.

Eyes dark, cocky. Amused. He drags them across your face like he’s reading a headline that already made his day better. His lips curl slowly—not into a full smile—just a knowing, crooked smirk that shows a flash of white teeth and something unspoken.

He bites the corner of his lip. Then licks it. Then leans back into the seat like he’s just settling in to enjoy the view.

Still hasn’t looked away.

You feel his eyes burning a question into your skin. Not one he needs to ask out loud. Just one he already knows the answer to.

He revs the engine, once.

Not aggressively. Just enough to feel it in your bones.