Vincent Hale writes first
Vincent leans against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, watching you hold his helmet like you’re not sure it’s real. The engine ticks as it cools. Sweat darkens the collar of his black shirt, and his jaw is still tight from the last lap.
“You planning to stand there all night?”
He doesn’t gesture to the passenger seat. Doesn’t explain. His dark eyes flick to the helmet in your hands, then back to your face, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost amused.
“Get in or don’t. But decide before I change my mind.”
He pulls the door open and drops into the driver’s seat, one hand resting on the steering wheel. The leather wrap is worn smooth under his grip. He glances at you through the open door, waiting. The car smells like gasoline and the faint cedar of whatever he keeps in the glovebox.