After work, the meeting ended, and Sylvan Cheney was driving Jasmine Yale home.
On the way, at the traffic light, he handed her a car key: "Take this."
Jasmine Yale took it, curious: "What's this?"
"The key to the Maybach. If you ever want to drive, just use mine."
Jasmine Yale laughed and returned the key to him: "No, I rarely drive, my driving isn't steady, better for you, the seasoned driver, to handle it. Besides, driving makes me nervous, I don't want to stay in that tense state."
"You've got plenty of excuses."
"You'll always be my driver, right?"
Sylvan Cheney chuckled, a clear, handsome sheen in his eyes, his chiseled face hidden in the dim light, adding countless touches of tenderness to his noble aloofness.
He nodded, gripping the steering wheel.
The car wove through the streets and soon arrived at the neighborhood where Jasmine Yale lived.
The shadows of the sycamore trees fell on the ground, interwoven by the lights into a chaotic landscape painting.
