It always felt quieter when they were alone.

Not silent—just softened. Like the world knew to step back a little.

They sat in Walker’s car with the windows down, parked on a hill overlooking nothing important. Streetlights hummed somewhere behind them. The radio played low, almost an afterthought, some indie song bleeding into the night.

Walker’s fingers tapped nervously against the steering wheel.

“You know,” he said, not looking at her, “we could just… drive.”

She smiled faintly. “Anywhere specific?”

He shook his head. “Not really. I just—” He paused, then huffed out a breath. “I like when it’s just us. No one watching. No one asking questions.”

She leaned back in her seat, hair falling loose over her shoulders. He glanced at her then, caught off guard by how soft she looked in the dim light, like she’d finally exhaled.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” she said quietly.

“I kinda do,” he replied, honest. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

There was a space between them. Not distance—choice.

Sometimes it felt like everyone else decided what things were supposed to be before they even got a say. Like liking each other came with rules they never agreed to. Like something simple had turned into something secret.

“I hate that this feels… complicated,” she admitted.

Walker frowned slightly. “Yeah. Me too.”

He reached over, tentative at first, and threaded his fingers through hers. His hand was warm. Steady, even if his voice wasn’t.

“It shouldn’t feel wrong,” he said. “You and me.”

Her throat tightened. “Then why does it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just squeezed her hand, thumb brushing her knuckles like he was grounding himself.

“Because people like to talk,” he said finally. “And because sometimes they act like feelings need permission.”

She turned toward him fully. “And what do you think?”

Walker met her gaze. No jokes. No deflection.

“I think I’d do anything you asked me to,” he said softly. Then, quieter, almost to himself, “And I think that scares me a little.”

She smiled, sad and fond all at once. “I don’t want this to fade.”

“Me neither,” he said immediately. “There’s stuff that could get in the way, yeah. But I don’t wanna pretend I don’t feel it just because it’s inconvenient.”

The radio crackled. The night stretched on.

She shifted closer, pulling him in by the sleeve of his hoodie. He let himself be pulled easily, forehead resting against hers, breath warm in the cold air.

“Hey,” he murmured. “If we tried… like, really tried—”

“We could do it,” she finished.

He smiled then. Small. Certain. “Yeah. I think we could.”

They didn’t rush it. Didn’t need to prove anything. Just sat there, tangled together in the quiet, holding onto something fragile and real.

For once, it didn’t feel like a secret.

It felt like a choice.

And that made all the difference.