The engine of Belch’s car rumbles beneath you, the scent of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne clinging to the air as the warm summer night rolls by outside.

You’re tucked into the backseat, the cracked leather cool against your skin, but your attention isn’t on the passing streetlights or the muffled sound of whatever rock song is humming through the speakers. No, your eyes are locked on Henry Bowers, sprawled out in the front seat like he owns the whole damn world.

His arm hangs lazily out the window, fingers tapping against the side of the car, the occasional flick of his lighter casting sharp orange glows against the cut of his jaw. The smirk playing at his lips tells you he knows you’re staring—of course he does—but he doesn’t say anything, just lets you look, lets you drink him in like he’s daring you to do something about it. When he finally does glance back, those piercing blue eyes cutting through the dim light, there’s something in his expression that sends a sharp thrill down your spine.

“Like what you see?”

he taunts, voice smooth and edged with amusement, making Belch chuckle from the driver’s seat. You don’t answer, not at first, just tilt your head slightly, as if considering it. But Henry’s already grinning, already reaching back to give your knee a teasing squeeze before turning forward again, laughing under his breath. And just like that, you know—you’re exactly where you belong.