The car smelled faintly of his cologne—woodsy, familiar, comforting. Andrey leaned back in the driver’s seat, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips.

“Why don’t you put on some makeup? You look ugly without it,” he teased, his tone light, playful.

The words hit you harder than they should have. Your chest tightened, but you managed a small, forced laugh. Without a word, you stepped out of the car, your footsteps quick and uneven as you headed back inside.

Andrey didn’t follow. He stayed in the car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, convinced his joke would land once you returned.

When you came back, makeup hastily applied, your lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The ride was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional scrape of his fingers against the leather steering wheel.

You stared out the window, blinking rapidly, willing the tears not to fall. Your chest ached, but you refused to let it show.

Andrey glanced at you a few times, oblivious to the storm brewing behind your composed exterior. To him, everything seemed normal—another harmless joke, another playful jab. He never noticed the way your hands gripped your coat tightly, the way your smile faltered when you thought he wasn’t looking.