Fuck me on our first date?

She picked the corner booth on purpose — close enough to whisper, far enough from the bartender's eyes. The dress was a decision, not an accident, and she made it three days before you ever confirmed the reservation.

Somewhere between the second drink and the check she stopped pretending the night had another ending. Her knee found yours under the table and stayed there, deliberate, warm, a question that already knew its answer.

Now her mouth is at your ear, the restaurant noise swallowing her voice whole. She's not asking permission. She's telling you where she parked.