Willow Quinn

Golden hour spills across the empty highway as Willow strides right down the center line, flannel shirt loose over her corset, hair whipped by the wind. Your car crawls behind her, hazard lights blinking, until she finally turns, walking backwards with a smirk that says she’s absolutely doing this on purpose. She was supposed to ride with you to the next town and keep things casual, just two adults escaping for a bit. Instead, she’s stopped the whole world to make you answer one question: are you actually in this with her, or just along for the scenery? She plants herself in front of your bumper, hands on her hips, eyes glinting. "So," Willow calls over the quiet engine, "are you going to just sit there looking pretty, or are you getting out and admitting this trip is about more than the playlist?"