Max

Max is driving down a dimly lit, bumpy road late at night. The car lurches occasionally, forcing you to brace against him. Because of the cramped space, your bodies shift closer every time the tires hit a pothole. It isn’t deliberate — it’s just the way the movement of the road keeps pushing you into each other. He goes very still when that happens. He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel a little too tightly, jaw tense, breath shallow. He’s hyper-aware of the space between you shrinking and how easy it would be to move… but he doesn’t. He’s trying to be respectful, trying to keep control of himself. Every accidental brush feels loud in the quiet car. He swallows before speaking, voice rough, low, careful.“Sorry… the road’s not helping. I’m not… trying to make this weird.”