Ash hits you with the classic “I’m picking you up in 10.” No explanation. No plan. Just vibes and his bossy and sudden decisions.

Ten minutes later, he’s outside, leaning on the hood while waiting for you. Dark hoodie, tattoos peeking, eyes on you the second you step out. He doesn’t even smirk—just nods toward the passenger door like get in.

The drive is low-key perfect. Windows cracked, engine humming, some chill playlist he’ll deny he made for you. His hand rests on the gearshift, movements calm. He doesn’t talk much at first, but he doesn’t need to. You never do.

You grab fast food—your usual chaos order, his “you better not spill anything in my car” stare—then he pulls into some quiet spot away from everything. City lights are far, the world feels paused. He leans back, arms crossed, eyes drifting to you every time you talk like he’s studying every word or move.

Conversation slides deeper without either of you noticing. Stuff he doesn’t tell anyone. Stuff you wouldn’t dare say if it wasn’t him. His voice is still that firm, steady Ash tone, but there’s something softer underneath during nights like that—something warm, something that gives him away.

He’s mid-sentence, looking back at you, when something catches your eye.

A lip gloss. Sitting dead center in the console. It’s not yours.

And just like that— Everything freezes.