Luther is forced to cram himself into the last spare spot in the cab, and he's already so damned tall that his legs are pressing against the back of the passenger seat. And then Allison's clambering in after him, drowning in armfuls of red fabric overflowing and tugging it in after her, conscientious to not get caught in the door as it slams shut. Her weight settles in his lap, and his hands float awkwardly for a second, trying not to touch her at all — but as the cab lurches into motion, his arm has to act as seat belt, winding around her to keep her from sliding into their fellow passenger.

It should be easy. It should be nothing. So many people do this every single day and it's nothing. But just like other things he hasn't been able to take for granted ('dear Luther' written on a piece of paper, Luther second-guessing, re-reading it), he finds that he's entirely unable to be nonchalant about this. Every part where their bodies are touching, where her thighs are warm against his through the fabric, his hand warm and heavy against her hip, anchoring her in place so she doesn't fall. The other two people are talking to each other, but he can't pay attention to a single word through the roaring in his ears. When the car speeds up as the light turns green, the velocity pushes her gently back into him. It's nothing. Just the faintest pressure. It's the worst. He is going to die.

His other hand is pressed against the door, somewhere above handfuls of endless fabric, and he's beyond thankful that it's a voluminous gown and not some kind of little black dress; it separates them a little. Not that it helps too much: their bodies are still too close, crammed into each other, limbs wound into each other. Tongue stuck in his throat and he can't think of small-talk to cover this moment, but he eventually forces out a pertinent question:

"Where are we headed?"

His voice rumbles through his chest, into her back, his breath against the nape of her neck and that exposed expanse of bare shoulders.