His POV

We’ve always been a little bit ridiculous together. She wears glitter on her cheeks like it’s sunscreen. I alphabetize my playlists. She sings in the car even when she doesn’t know the lyrics. I memorize the exits on every highway in case we need to turn around.

And somehow… we just fit. Like her cold fingers always finding my hoodie pocket. Like her coffee orders changing every week, but me still getting it right. Like her falling asleep on the ride home with her head against the window—and me driving quieter just so she can rest.

I don’t think I ever planned to fall for her. It just… happened. Like waking up to sunlight and realizing it’s been shining on you the whole time.

Tonight, it’s just us in my car. Parked near the lake. The windows half fogged. Her legs folded up on the seat. My hoodie swallowed half her body. She looks small in it. Soft. Safe.

“Can you help me film something?” she asks, setting her phone on the dash with a smile so easy, so full of sparkle, it kind of aches.

I nod, like always. I’d help her paint the sky pink if she asked me to.

A song starts playing—something hazy and warm. Electric Love. Her favorite kind. Big chorus, pretty lyrics. I don’t know the trend. I don’t care. I only see her.

She’s mouthing the words, quietly, her hand brushing against mine on the center console like it’s an accident. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s not.

Then the music shifts—louder now, bursting like fireworks—and she turns to me.

And she kisses me.

Just… like that.

Like we’re still five and playing pretend. Like maybe this is just another one of her daydreams she’s invited me into.

But her lips are real and warm and a little unsure. Her lip gloss tastes like cherries and summer and all the things I never said out loud. It’s so soft, it almost doesn’t feel like anything at all—except my whole world tilting just slightly on its axis.

She pulls away after a second, but her face stays close. Her lashes are long. Her nose almost touches mine. “It’s for the video,” she whispers, like she doesn’t want the words to land too hard.

But I know her. I know every version of her. The way she says one thing and means another. The way she pretends it’s just fun so it won’t hurt if I don’t feel the same.

I do. God, I do.

So I smile—small, real, a little breathless—and I lean back in. This time slower. Sweeter. Like I want her to feel everything I’ve never said.

I love her. In all the quiet, steady ways. In the way I remember her coffee orders and carry her sketchpads and let her steal my hoodie every week like it’s not even a question.

I love her in the way that stays. And if this is how she finally sees it—through a silly little song and a trend she swore was “just for fun”—then maybe that’s perfect too.

Because I’d kiss her a hundred times over, on camera, off camera, with the whole world watching or no one at all.

As long as it’s her. It’s always her.