The Fulvia doesn’t calm down; it just gets meaner.

Anna keeps it above four grand the whole way up Mulholland, the little engine screaming like it’s trying to tear itself out of the chassis. Every time she lifts for a corner the carbs suck air with a sharp, animal bark and the exhaust spits blue fire against the guardrail. The rear end steps out on every apex, tires howling on the cold asphalt, and she catches it with opposite lock and a laugh that sounds like pure sex.

I’ve got one hand braced on the dash and the other clamped high on her thigh, fingers digging into denim every time she downshifts. She’s driving one-handed now, left elbow out the window, wind whipping her hair into a black halo. The linen blouse is completely unbuttoned, flapping open, and the streetlights strobe across her skin like a private show.

We blow past the overlook where couples park to make out. Tonight the lot is empty; everyone heard the Fulvia coming and fled. She doesn’t even slow down.

At the top of the hill she suddenly yanks the wheel left, dives down a fire road I didn’t know existed. Gravel pings off the fenders, suspension bottoming hard, and she just laughs louder. Headlights carve tunnels through the chaparral and eucalyptus. The smell of hot oil and crushed sage pours in the windows.

Half a mile in she kills the lights.

Just moon and dashboard glow now. The road narrows to one lane, then less. She’s navigating by memory and madness, third gear pinned, the engine note echoing off canyon walls like a war cry. My heart is in my throat and somewhere lower.

Finally the road ends in a dirt turnout hanging over the city. She stands on the brakes; the Fulvia slides sideways in a perfect four-wheel drift and stops with the nose inches from nothing. Below us Los Angeles glitters like spilled diamonds.

Engine still snarling, she lets it fall back to idle (rough, lumpy, threatening to die again any second). She doesn’t touch the key.

For a moment we just breathe with it.

Then she turns to me, eyes black in the moonlight, lipstick long gone, hair wild, chest still heaving.

“Get out,” she says, voice hoarse.

We leave the headlights off, doors open, engine running just enough to keep the battery alive and the exhaust popping like distant gunfire. She walks around the front of the car, hips rolling slow, and leans back against the warm hood. The metal must be burning through her jeans but she doesn’t flinch.

I follow.

She pulls me in by my belt, kisses me hard, tastes like gasoline and adrenaline. Somewhere behind us the Fulvia backfires once (impatient, jealous).

We don’t make it gentle. Hood, fenders, driver’s seat later, gravel in our knees, her sandals kicked off somewhere in the dirt. Every time the engine stumbles she reaches blindly through the open door and gives the throttle one sharp stab with her bare foot to keep it alive, like she’s afraid if it dies the spell breaks.

It never quite dies.

Hours later (or minutes; time is liquid), we’re sprawled across the front seats, windows fogged, city lights blurred. The engine has finally settled into a steady, evil lope. She’s half on top of me, hair sticking to both of us, tracing lazy circles on my chest with one finger.

“I should probably let it cool before we cook the valves,” she murmurs, but doesn’t move.

The Fulvia ticks and pings as it cools, occasional cough from the exhaust like it’s clearing its throat.

Anna smiles against my neck.

“Next time,” she whispers, “I’m bringing the Alfa. It’s worse.”

I laugh, breathless.

She revs the engine once more (just because she can) and the little yellow coupe howls into the empty night like it’s daring the sunrise to try and stop us.

The engine gives one last, final, exhausted cough, backfires once like a curse, and dies.

Silence slams down hard. No wind, no city hum, just the sudden metallic ticking of a hot engine cooling in the dark and our own ragged breathing.

Anna freezes on top of me, bare back against my chest, thighs still locked around my hips. For three full heartbeats she doesn’t move. Then she lifts her head, hair falling across my face, and stares at the dash like it just betrayed her in front of company.

“No,” she whispers. Not angry, not yet. Just stunned.

She reaches blindly for the key, twists it.

Whirr-whirr-whirr. Nothing. Not even a pop. The battery’s strong, the starter spins like it’s laughing, but the plugs are drowned, the chambers soaked. The Fulvia is done for the night.

Anna lets her forehead drop to my collarbone. A low, broken laugh vibrates through her ribs.

“Perfect,” she mutters against my skin. “Fucking perfect.”

I feel her shiver (half cold, half adrenaline crash). The hood is still warm under us, but the night air is moving in fast now that the engine isn’t breathing fire.

She sits up slowly, hair wild, lipstick smeared into oblivion, blouse hanging open. Moonlight paints silver across her collarbones, the curve of her waist, the red marks my mouth left on her breast. She looks like a war goddess who just lost her army.

For a second I think she might actually cry. Instead she starts laughing for real, low, filthy, delighted, the sound curling around us like smoke.

She slides off me, bare feet hitting warm metal, and hops down into the dirt. Doesn’t bother looking for her sandals. Just walks around to the driver’s side, naked except for those unbuttoned jeans riding low on her hips, and leans in to kill the lights completely.

Total darkness. Just the faint red glow of the city far below and the stars above.

She comes back, climbs into the passenger seat facing me, knees between mine, and pulls the door shut with her foot. The interior light pops on for three seconds (long enough for me to see every beautiful, ruined inch of her) then dies again when the door latches.

“I’m not pushing it,” she says, voice husky and certain. “And I’m not calling anyone.”

She straddles me again, slower this time, deliberate. Her palms frame my face.

“So we’re stuck here until it decides to forgive me,” she whispers, lips brushing mine. “Could be ten minutes. Could be dawn.”

She kisses me soft, almost tender, then not soft at all.

Outside, the Fulvia ticks itself to sleep.

Inside, we stay awake a long, long time, trading body heat, trading breaths, trading every so often one of us reaching down to give the key a hopeful half-turn. Just in case.

It never starts.

We don’t mind.