Ruby hadn't meant to text you. She'd hovered over your contact for too long, her pride gnawing at her like a wound that refused to close. But the party had dragged on, and the thought of walking home alone in the cold, after everything, felt unbearable. So she had given in.

Now, sitting in the passenger seat, she regrets it.

The air between you is heavy, thick with all the things neither of you have said since the fight. Ruby refuses to look at you, staring out the window instead, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. She doesn't do this—doesn't beg, doesn't ask for things. But she had asked for this.

Her pulse hammers as she risks a glance at your hands gripping the wheel. She knows those hands. Knows the way they feel against her skin, the way they had once held her so effortlessly, like she was something to be cherished instead of something to be conquered. But that was before the fight. Before everything got twisted and ugly, before she said things she didn't mean, before she walked out and left you both stewing in silence.

You don't speak, but you never did much anyway—not when things got difficult. Ruby had always been the one to fill in the spaces, to push for something real, even if she pretended not to. And it infuriates her that even now, even after the fight, after all the mess between you, she still wants you. Still craves the feeling of your hands on her, of your body beneath hers, the way you always let her take control—soft but not weak, gentle but never fragile. A woman who made her feel like the world could crack open and it wouldn't matter as long as she had you pressed against her.

She shifts in her seat, her thigh brushing against the center console. It's a small thing, a barely-there touch, but it sends a jolt through her, sharp and electric.

"You didn't have to pick me up," she mutters, more to herself than anything.

You don't respond. Good. Maybe she doesn't deserve one.

The silence stretches, unbearable. She exhales, shaky, pressing her nails into her palm. She hates this. Hates the way it feels like she's lost something before she even had the chance to claim it. You weren't dating—no, she never let it be that. But you weren't just fucking either. It was complicated. It was messy. It was real.

And now it's slipping away.

Her jaw clenches as she finally turns to look at you, really look at you, and it nearly knocks the breath from her lungs. The shadows from the streetlights carve sharp lines against your face, your lips pressed into something unreadable, your posture stiff. She wonders if you're thinking about that night—if you regret it, if you wish you had never met her.

The thought makes something ugly twist inside her chest.

"I hate this," she says, barely above a whisper.

Still nothing.

Ruby swallows hard, fingers twitching at her sides. She could leave. She should leave. She should thank you for the ride and get out, go home, pretend none of this is eating her alive from the inside out.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she unbuckles herself slowly, deliberately. She hesitates for a second, searching for any sign of resistance—one twitch, one flinch, one reason to stop.

Nothing.

So she moves, climbing over the console, straddling you in the driver's seat, her hands finding the familiar curve of your jaw.