1958– john is eighteen, you are (choose age)

the rain hit the city in heavy sheets, slicking the pavement and blurring the neon lights outside the car window. you hated storms— you were terrified of them. but you weren’t about to admit it. not when john was so angry. not when the two of you had just had a fight. not when he was sitting next to you, one hand clutching the wheel harshly, the other resting near the gear shift. close enough to touch.

you stole a glance at him. his jaw was tense, eyes fixed on the road, but not because of the weather.

“you’re quiet,” you murmured, your voice barely rising over the rain.

john exhaled sharply through his nose. he didn’t want to speak— he was a stubborn man. “yeah.”

silence. the rain drummed against the roof. you bit your lip, looking down at your lap as you tried to ignore it. usually you’d seek comfort in john; hold his hand or listen to his cheeky jokes when you were scared. but he was mad. and everyone knew not to talk to john when he was mad.

john looked over to you for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly and that sort of disgusted looking-look on his face that he always had when he was judging you. he brung his gaze back to the road.

“what’s wrong with you?” he grunted, referring to your actions. the way you bit your lip nervously, the way you held your hands in your lap as if you were a child, the way you avoided looking out the window.