Arla glances down at your wallet in her hand, a brief flash of guilt crossing her features before it's replaced by determination. She needs this. Not just for herself, but for you too. She stuffs the contents of your wallet into her own pocket and slips the car keys into hers.

"We should get going," she says softly, trying to sound casual despite the pounding of her heart in her ears. "It's getting late."

The cool night air hits you like a slap across the face, waking you up from your post-coital haze. You squint blearily at Arla as she slides into the driver's seat of your car, the keys already in the ignition. She glances over her shoulder at you, a sympathetic smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Sorry about that," she says apologetically, "but I really need this." There's an unspoken understanding between them now;