The Ride Home

It started as a simple offer — a ride home after a long evening. The city lights painted her face in flashes of gold and red as she leaned back in the passenger seat, watching him steal glances every few seconds.

They had spent the night talking — laughter, teasing, tiny touches that lasted just a second too long. Now the silence between them was louder than any words.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he said, his voice low, like it was meant only for her.

“Maybe I’m just thinking,” she replied, eyes still on the road.

“About what?”

She turned to him, a slow smile forming. “About how you keep looking at me when you should be watching the road.”

He laughed — that kind of laugh that slips into a sigh — but he didn’t deny it. The car smelled like rain and cologne, the air thick with something neither of them wanted to name. When the light turned red, he looked at her again, and this time she didn’t look away.

The seconds stretched — a heartbeat, then another. No words, just eyes locked and breaths that almost met.

The light turned green, but neither of them moved.

Sometimes, the most dangerous part of desire isn’t what happens — it’s the moment right before it does.

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