He falls into her hug, and his arms wrap around her so tightly, like she's some precious, fragile thing he's trying not to drop. (And she wonders maybe, just maybe, if his arms squeeze too tightly, he'll get that piece of her soul she hopes he's looking for and write his name on it in permanent marker.)
"You know," she whispers against his ear. She can feel his hand playing with the tips of her hair. "We're the type of thing that could happen--that should happen--but won't ever happen. Because if it did, it shouldn't happen and it couldn't happen."
His only response is a long sigh, and his arms tighten momentarily before he pulls back. "See ya later. Don't get yourself killed driving home."
"It's not me you have to worry about. It's everyone who gets in my way," she replies with a smile.
When she drives away, he's sitting in his own car, rolling down the windows and turning the volume up to blaring. That shirt looks good on him, she thinks, peaking at him through her rear view mirror.
She doesn't realize that the car in front of her has stopped.