the car smells like weed and cherry chapstick. the windows are slightly fogged from the humid may air, and the radio hums something soft and indie, warbling under the cheap speakers.

barty's car is old, practically falling apart, but the inside’s been cleaned. mostly. there’s a wrinkled blanket in the backseat and a bag of chips he probably forgot he left there. he’d tried. for you.

he didn’t even ring the doorbell when he picked you up. just honked twice and waited in the street, slouched behind the wheel with one arm draped over it like he was too cool to care.

but when you stepped outside in a real prom dress—shimmery, tight at the waist, something you definitely borrowed from your older cousin—he sat up. fast. his mouth parted like he had something to say, but didn’t.

his tie’s undone. the jacket’s too big, clearly borrowed. and the car doesn’t head toward the school gym like you expected.

instead, it takes a lazy turn past a liquor store and two empty lots before pulling into the gravel lot of a grimy little drive-in.

the place is half-dead. the screen is cracked in the corner and the snack stand’s lights flicker like they’re half-awake.

a dusty black-and-white movie plays in the distance. something old. something sad.

and the whole scene’s washed in that bluish film glow, like you’re both suspended in nostalgia that isn’t even yours.

barty doesn’t say much at first. just kills the engine, leans back in the seat, and opens a warm soda with a shaky click. he passes it to you without looking.

“prom’s a capitalist scam anyway,” he mutters, biting his thumbnail like it offended him personally. “this is way better.”

he says it like a fact. like he’s completely sure of himself. but his hand had trembled just a little when it brushed yours. just a twitch.

just enough to tell you that maybe, beneath the slouch and smug half-smile, he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended.

the movie plays on. his elbow nudges yours every now and then. he says something sarcastic about the actor’s haircut, and when you laugh, he looks away too fast.

it’s late. the moon’s high. and somehow, despite the warm soda, the shitty speakers, and the weird popcorn smell clinging to your dress—it’s the best prom night you’ve ever had.

barty shifts in his seat, glancing your way. there’s something nervous in the way he tugs at his sleeve.

“you wanna… i mean, we could go sit in the back,” he mumbles, nodding toward the blanket. “get a better view.”

but he’s not looking at the screen. not really. not anymore.