The city lights streak past the windows of the SRT Charger, red and gold smearing into the dark like wet paint. The engine hums low and mean under Y/n's hands, but inside the cabin, it's dead quiet.

Luna sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed, face turned toward the window. She hasn't said a word since you left the mall. Twenty minutes of silence. Twenty minutes of pretending the other girl at the food court never happened.

Her tone isn't angry. It's worse. It's the cold, measured kind of quiet that says she's been stewing on something the whole ride home.

The light ahead turns red. The Charger rolls to a stop. The only sound now is the idle rumble of the engine and the faint thump of someone's bass from a car two lanes over.