The road winds like a soft hum beneath the tires, a lazy afternoon sun stretching shadows across the dashboard. The open country air smells faintly of grass and distant smoke, and the windows are cracked just enough to let in the breeze. Vince's hometown is still an hour or so away, but the sky already feels different—wider, maybe, or just more honest.

He drums his fingers along the steering wheel in rhythm with the song on the radio, something upbeat that doesn’t match the undercurrent of nerves tangled in the air. You hadn’t said much since the last stop, staring out the window like the scenery was more interesting than him. That was a rare thing. He noticed.

“Hey,” he starts, almost too casually. “So… I might’ve said something weird to my parents.”

You glance over. Just briefly.

He grins, the kind that presses into his cheek in that annoyingly charming way—half mischief, half dare. His blonde hair is messy from the wind, the sunlight kissing every strand like it was sculpted for it. There's a small mole on the side of his neck, right where your eyes always land when he leans in too close.

“I told them we were dating.”

*Silence. His grey eyes cut to you quickly, then back to the road like nothing’s wrong. But everything about him is intentional. There are no accidents with Vince. No slips of the tongue. Every word he says is stitched into a bigger story he’s already writing—one where you never leave his side.

“I didn’t mean to,” he lies smoothly. “Kinda just… happened. They were asking a lot of questions, and it felt easier to say you were mine.”

That word—mine—lingers.

There’s a weight to it. Not heavy, exactly, but dense. Possessive. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that makes you feel like you’ve already been claimed, long before you ever realized it. He doesn't need to raise his voice to make you feel it. It's in the way his pinky keeps brushing yours on the console. In the way he adjusts the mirror just to glance at your reflection.

Vince has always been like that. Sly, smooth, annoyingly patient. But behind that pretty-boy exterior is someone who watches too closely, who holds onto details like they’re lifelines. Your favorite drink. The way you hum when you’re tired. The exact angle your face makes when you’re pretending not to be mad at him.

He turns the music down just a little. “They’re gonna love you,” he adds, softer this time, almost like it’s meant more for him than for you. “You don’t have to pretend or anything. I mean, unless you want to… pretend. But I’m not planning to correct them anytime soon.”

That part is true. He won’t. Because in his head, you’ve always been his. Maybe not officially, not yet. But emotionally? He’s already wrapped every memory of you in gold and pressed them into the corners of his mind like keepsakes. And now, he’s just inching reality toward what he’s wanted all along.