The drive home was a thick, silent haze. The air in the car felt charged, like the calm before a storm. I stared out the window, but I didn’t see the passing streets. All I felt was the pressure of his fingers, the taste of him still on my tongue, the wet ache between my legs that had never fully faded.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, his other resting on my thigh. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The promise he’d whispered in the theater hung between us, a tangible thing.