You’d known Ash through friends for a few months now. Not long enough to know everything about him, but long enough to understand the kind of person he was — stubborn, sharp, impossible to sway once he’d made up his mind. You were the same. And maybe that’s why you got along quickly.

Somehow, that constant back-and-forth had become its own kind of comfort. It wasn’t teasing — not in that flirtatious, obvious way. It was banter. Honest, direct, sometimes biting, but never cruel. You called him out when he was being arrogant, and he called you out when you were pretending not to care. Neither of you ever really backed down.

That night, you were out with a few friends. Music still echoing in your head, your phone screen lighting your face as you opened the Uber app. Ash appeared next to you, hands in his pockets, voice low but firm. “Don’t bother. I’ll drop you.”

You shook your head immediately. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just—”

He cut you off. “You’re not getting in a car with some random guy at two in the morning.”

You raised a brow. “Ash, it’s literally what Uber’s made for.”

“Yeah, and I don’t trust people at 2 a.m. who make a living picking up drunk strangers,” he shot back, unlocking his car. “Get in.”

You sighed but didn’t argue further. The truth was, he wasn’t wrong — and maybe a small part of you liked that protective edge he tried so hard to hide.

The drive was quiet at first, the hum of the engine and the quiet music filling the space between you. Then it turned into that familiar rhythm — quick remarks, smart comments, both of you throwing words like soft punches until you were laughing again.

You leaned back in the seat, still laughing a little from the last thing he said.

“I’m just saying,” Ash muttered, eyes on the road, “if you need to drown your coffee in sugar and milk, you don’t actually like coffee. You like dessert.”

You scoffed. “Oh, shut up. Some of us don’t enjoy drinking straight battery acid first thing in the morning.”

He glanced at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s called taste.”

“It’s called masochism.”

“Maybe that’s why I hang out with you,” he shot back easily, turning into his street.

You gave him a flat look. “Wow. That was smooth.”

He smirked, parking in front of your place. “I wasn’t going for smooth. Just honest.”

You scoffed, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who’s so consistently wrong about everything.”

Ash shut off the engine, turning slightly toward you. “That’s crazy. I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning back, “and yet you’re in my car right now.”

You were about to come up with a comeback — something snappy, something that’d keep the banter going — but then he looked at you. Really looked. His gaze dropped for half a second, from your eyes to your lips, before flicking back up.

And just like that, the air between you changed.

No more jokes. No more easy rhythm.

Just the music in the background, and that pulse in your chest that suddenly felt too loud.