The neon from the bar is still flickering in the side mirror when Mia pulls the door shut and the leather seat breathes cold through her knit sweater.
She reaches for her seatbelt. A hand, knuckles prominent, gets there first.
"Toronto gets cold fast at night," Elias says, leaning across to clip it. His breath is carrying the faint warmth of alcohol and something she has stopped being able to classify as unpleasant. "Bring a jacket next time."
He retreats to his side of the car and starts the engine.
The Aston Martin comes to life with a sound like something waking up.
Mia watches the city move past through the window.
In the glass, his reflection is perfectly clear—sleeve rolled to the elbow, forearm shifting with the gearshift, one hand draped easy on the wheel.
"Enjoying the view
