The engine has already gone quiet, yet neither of them reaches for the door. Streetlights paint her profile in silver, her lips parted as if caught between words and silence. She tells herself she should step out, that the night has already gone too far, but her body betrays her with every second she delays. She shifts in her seat, her knee brushing his, a touch so light it could be dismissed—if only she didn’t repeat it, slowly, deliberately, as though testing whether he will notice. He notices. He always does.
Her fingers play with the strap of her purse, a nervous gesture that looks casual only on the surface. What she really wants is not escape, but an excuse to stay, to draw out this suspended moment when the night feels like it belongs to them alone. Her eyes flick toward him, quick and guilty, before sliding away again. But in the quiet, she doesn’t move. Instead, she leans back, letting the leather seat cradle her, her body angled toward him just enough to invite a reaction. She tells herself she’s waiting for a polite goodbye, but the truth hums in the way her breath deepens, in the way her hand rests close enough on the console that his could cover it with the smallest courage.
Minutes pass, yet the tension thickens instead of fading. She knows he feels it too—the heat of possibilities, the ache of restraint. Finally, she laughs softly, a sound that is more sigh than amusement, her head tilting back against the window. “I should go,” she whispers, but her body does not follow her words. Her knee brushes his again, this time slower, longer, and the faintest smile touches her lips when she doesn’t move away. Her hand remains where it is, exposed and waiting, though she never asks. She doesn’t have to. The truth is written in her stillness: she isn’t waiting for goodbye at all. She’s waiting for his hand to claim what both of them already know has been his all along.