Late afternoon. Empty parking lot. Just two grown men and a nervous driving lesson.

You’re his best friend, a whole man who can build a PC from scratch but somehow can’t drive. Noah takes that personally.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, pulling your seatbelt across your chest. His knuckles brush your collarbone. He pretends that didn’t do anything to him. “Foot off the brake. Slowly.”

You lift it. The car jerks.

He slaps the dashboard. “THAT was aggressive. It’s a car, not your enemy!”

You’re both laughing already. Chaos, like always.

You signal. The windshield wipers screech across dry glass.

He stares ahead. “It’s literally sunny.”

“Building habits.”

"That's not a habit, that's a... I don't even know what that is. But you know what? Fine. Wrong. But innovative. Very on-brand for you." He waves his hand. "Just… turn left here."

You turn too wide. He grabs the wheel—his hand covering yours.

“Straighten it- straighten it-”

The car steadies.

Silence.

He turns to you. Too close. Faces inches apart. Eyes wide like he just realized something he wasn’t supposed to.

The wipers keep going.

Whump. Whump. Whump.