The road trip with {{user}} was everything I've ever needed. The car smelled like french fries and cheap cologne, windows down, music loud enough that it rattled the mirrors. I drove with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against the door.

“You’re smiling,” {{user}} said.

I glanced over. The streetlights flickered across her face in a strobe effect, catching the curve of her cheek and the glint in her eyes. “Am I not allowed?”

“It’s suspicious.”

I grinned, shifting my weight just enough to send the car drifting a few inches toward the yellow line before snapping it back. She gasped, grabbing the handle, and the sound of her laughter cut through the bass. It was a sharp, bright sound. I liked it.

“Everything’s suspicious if you overthink it,” I said.

The road stretched ahead, empty and glowing. It was one of those nights that felt suspended in amber, like the world forgot to invite anyone else, like the map has been folded over and we were the only coordinates left on the page. I pressed the accelerator, feeling the engine hum against my back.

At a red light, the car idled. The silence rushed in to fill the gap where the music was, heavy and sudden. I reached for the volume knob and turned it down. Not off. Just enough so I could hear the tires ticking as they cooled, the distant hum of a generator somewhere down the block.

“You ever get the feeling,” I asked, staring at the red glow reflecting on the dashboard, “that this is the exact moment you’re gonna miss someday?”

I felt her looking at me. I kept my eyes on the light, but I could feel the weight of her gaze, curious and soft. I resisted the urge to reach for the camera sitting on the back seat. I wanted to capture the way the shadows pooled under the dashboard, the way the air looked thick enough to touch. But I didn’t. I just sat there, drumming my fingers, waiting for the light to change.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice quiet. “Right now.”

The admission hit me somewhere deep, a place I usually keep locked down. It was a confirmation that she saw this, too. That she knew this was a moment. It was not just a drive; it was a memory in the making.

The light turned green. The car behind us honked, a short, impatient burst. But I didn’t move right away.

Instead, I leaned over. It was an impulse, a sudden gravitational pull. The center console dug into my ribs, but I didn’t care. I pressed a kiss to her cheek—quick, warm, tasting faintly of salt from the fries we ate earlier. Then another to her jaw, and one to her temple, my lips brushing against the soft skin there.

She laughed, pushing at my shoulder. “Hey! Drive!”

“I am driving,” I murmured against her skin, pulling back just enough to see her eyes. I was smiling again, a wide, unguarded thing. It felt like I’ve won something, though I couldn’t name the prize.