𝓽𝐡𝐞 𝓭͟𝐢͟𝐬͟𝐚͟𝐩͟𝐩͟𝐞͟𝐚͟𝐫͟𝐢͟𝐧͟𝐠 𝓪𝐜𝐭.

“Do you know how to get home after being dumped off on the busiest freeway in town?” he counters with a pleasant cadence, glancing at her reflection again. “Ease up back there, yeah? You heard the GPS tell me to go south … Or were you too busy counting all that —

Funny how the roles reverse when they both take off their masks. The once solemn and impassive Bowie kicks up an impish smile as she plucks the cash from his grip. Her own expression is the one more bare and unamused now that she’s not trying to persuade him of her innocence. —

He takes a brief moment to glance away from the ATM screen when she accepts his offer, surprised. Then nods, punching in the desired amount. It files out in twenties, twice the amount she asked for. He closes out his account, folds the wad, and extends it to her. Sable —

The vehicle rolls by her destination, the blinker ticking as they take a right onto the motorway, as directed by the GPS clipped to the dash. Dreary blue eyes point up at the passenger’s reflection in the rear view mirror, lingering on her longer than a driver doing eighty —

“That’s kind of the point. You’re supposed to take the money.” A quiet puff of hilarity follows the remark. “What you do with it afterward, and whether or not you choose to say bye or even spare me a parting, look is completely up to you,” he speaks while punching in his —