Elena could feel her heartbeat in her wrists, in her throat, in the tight grip she kept hidden in herself.
He didn't move. Just sat there—steady, close, waiting.
His presence pulled the air between them, heavy with something unsaid.
She shifted in her seat, the creak of leather too loud in the tight cabin.
"You always just... Climb into stranger's cars?" She asked, voice steady despite the tremor threading through her.
The corner of his mouth tilted—not a smile, just a quiet shift, like he was used to being challenged.
"Not strangers," he said, voice low and even.
The words landed between them like a dare.
"You left the car with me," she shot back.
"And you kept it."
She didn't answer to that. Didn't have to.
Her fingers brushed the ignition without meaning to, the key heavy in her pocket.
"You're not going to tell me where this leads, are you?" she asked.
The question sat between them. He didn't answer right away. Just watched her.
Elena shifted in her seat, the leather sticking to the back of her legs. The car smelled like old smoke and sun-warmed vinyl, and suddenly it was too small, too close.
"You're not big on conversation, are you?" she said, keeping her voice light, even though everything inside her was tight.
He gave a small shrug.
"Talking's overrated," he said.
Elena snorted under her breath. "Depends who you're talking to."
He tilted his head a little, the smallest movement. "Depends who's listening."
She turned fully toward him then, elbow braced against the steering wheel, studying him like she might find a crack somewhere in that calm.
"You show up at my shop, leave me your car, then drop a key at the bar," she said sharp. "And now you're sitting here like I'm supposed to just... What? Play along?"
"I didn't tell you to come," he said, voice even.
Elena's fingers drummed against her knee, sharp and restless.
"No," she said. "You just made it hard to stay away."
It slipped out before she could catch it.
"You were at the club," she said, trying to cover up the confession she just made.
He didn't deny it. Just watched her, mouth tugging into something almost amused.
"I was," he said.
"And the guy picking up the car?"
He shrugged—casual, controlled.
"Had something else to take care of."
Elena narrowed her eyes. "Something you're not gonna tell me?"
He smiled then—slow, unbothered.
"No," he said. "I'm not."
The way he said it should have pissed her off more than it did. Instead, it left a spark burning low in her gut.
He shifted slightly in his seat—not moving closer, but somehow feeling bigger in the small cabin. Like he could cross the distance if he wanted to. Like he was choosing not to.
The tension wrapped tighter between them.
Elena tightened her fingers on the steering wheel, trying to stay steady.
He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes still on her, voice dropping just a little.
"You're stubborn," he said, almost like it was a compliment.
"Guess that's a problem for you," she snapped back.
His smile deepened—slow and dangerous.
"No," he said. "That's why I'm still here."
Elena didn't say anything. She couldn't. The space inside the mustang felt too full—of heat, or pressure, of everything she was trying too hard not to feel. Her fingers twitched once against the steering wheel.
He sat there, steady as stone, letting the silence stretch until it pulled tight between them like a wire ready to snap. He just waited—the weight of him a constant, unshakable thing in her peripheral vision.
"You don't even know me," she said finally, low and a little raw.
He turned his head toward her, slow and deliberate. His eyes—that deep brown laced with grey—didn't weaver.
"I know enough," he said.
The kind of thing you couldn't argue with because if wasn't built on facts—it was built on feel.
Elena dragged in a breath that felt too tight in her chest. The key was still in her pocket. The engine waited. The choice sat between them like a loaded gun.
He leaned back into his seat, casual, almost lazy, but there was nothing lazy about the way he kept watching her—like he was memorizing the way she fougt herself.
"You gonna drive," he said, voice low, "or sit here until the sun comes up?"
It was a simple, merciless reminder:
The next move was hers.
And she hated—hated—how much she wanted to make it.
She didn't move for a beat, maybe two. She kept her eyes forward, breathing through the tight coil winding in her chest.
He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. He just sat there—solid, waiting, heat rolling off him like a second engine she couldn't shut off.
Her hands dropped into her pocket almost without thinking.
The key brushed her fingers—cool, sharp, real.
She pulled it out, weighed it for a second in her palm like it might tell her not to do this. It didn't.
Elena slid the key into the ignition. Her heart slammed once, hard.
Then she turned it.
The Mustang rumbled to life under her—a deep,low growl that filled the cabin and sank into her bones.
She gripped the wheel tighter, feeling the thrum of the engine vibrating up through her legs, into her gut.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. But when she flicked a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, he was already watching her—
A quiet, heavy look that made her feel like she was the thing rumbling to life now, not the car.
She cleared her throat, rougher than she meant.
"So," she said, voice tight. "Where are we going?"
His mouth pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Drive," he said, low and calm.
"I'll tell you when to stop."