My throat tightens at the easy certainty in his tone. Like feeding me is as simple as stopping for gas. Like my needs are allowed to exist without costing me something. I swallow. “Could we… pull over? Like… a drive-thru?”
Ozzy glances at the clock on the dash. It’s late. So late it’s early. “Yeah. Of course.” Then, after a beat, he adds, “If you say you’re fine and you don’t want to be a bother, I’m going to ignore you.”
I blink at him.
He keeps his eyes on the road, but his jaw shifts, like he’s already decided my hunger is non-negotiable.
I try for sarcasm because sarcasm is my safety blanket. “So you’re saying you’re not big on consent?”
His head turns just enough for me to catch the side of his grin. “I’m big on consent. I’m not big on you pretending you don’t deserve food.”
My chest gives this tiny, stupid ache. I look out the window before I do something embarrassing like get emotional over fries.
We take an exit and drift down a smaller road lined with closed shops and dark windows. Everything is asleep. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like the whole world is holding its breath. Then I see it. A glow ahead—pink neon, flickering slightly, like a heartbeat.
Ozzy turns into the lot.
The sign above the building reads:
MOONLIGHT MUNCHIES
And beneath it, in bright cursive: WE ALWAYS SATISFY YOUR CRAVINGS
I stare. I stare some more. Then I turn slowly to Ozzy. “What is this place?”
Ozzy pulls into the lot. He looks at the building like he’s also processing the absurdity. “It’s the only thing open.”
My gaze drops to the second sign in the window. BURGERS • BREAKFAST • ADULT TOYS
I blink. Then I blink again. “You brought me,” I say carefully, “to a place that sells pancakes and… handcuffs.”
Ozzy clears his throat like he’s trying to stay professional. He fails. “Technically, it sells sliders and… a variety of accessories.”
“A variety.”
He shrugs. “Multifunctional establishment.”
I press my lips together, trying so hard not to laugh that it becomes physically painful.
Ozzy’s eyes flick to mine. And then we both lose it. It starts as a quiet snort from him and a sharp little laugh from me, and then suddenly I’m laughing for real—full-bodied, shocked laughter that feels like my ribs are relearning how to expand.
Ozzy leans back in the driver’s seat, chuckling, his head tipping against the headrest. For a second, the world doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels like a ridiculous story I’ll tell someone later, when this is all over.
When I’m real again. When I’m free.
Ozzy steers the SUV toward the drive-thru. “Come on. Drive-thru.”
“Please tell me the drive-thru speaker is shaped like a—” I stop.
Ozzy points at me. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to say it.”
His eyebrows lift. “You were.”
I smile, and it surprises me how natural it feels.
We roll forward into the drive-thru lane. The menu is lit up like a Vegas marquee. Everything is themed.