POV: Florence
His car was the kind that didn't need a brand on it for you to know it cost more than most people's college education. Black, low, quiet in a way that felt deliberate, like even the engine had been paid to behave itself. The leather seats smelled new, expensive - the kind of scent you couldn't fake.
He held the door for me. I noticed that, filed it away against everything else I was learning about him in real time. The gesture felt natural, not performative, as though courtesy was simply woven into who he was rather than something he put on for show.
The city went by outside the window in streaks of light, and for a while neither of us said anything. His hand rested on the console between us, close enough that the air around it felt charged, and I was hyper aware of every
