The city rolled by in streaks of red and gold, smeared across the windshield like old memories. Maxwell Ford’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel in rhythm with the bass line playing through the speakers—his band’s newest demo. It sounded good. Of course it did. Everything he touched turned out the way he wanted. Almost everything.

In the passenger seat, you watched the road, lips pressed together, stealing glances when you thought he wasn’t looking. But he always noticed. He just never said anything. That was the game between the both of you. Always had been.

The others in the back were laughing, half-asleep, their voices fading into the soft chaos of the night. It smelled like rain, alcohol, cigarettes and old vinyl—home, in a strange, warm way.

And then the question came. Casual. Teasing. After all, how come the skilled, attractive and flirty guitarist never gets any fan home ? Never a fling, just casual flirting. So the group threw it curiously.

What’s your type, Ford?

He didn’t look away from the road. Didn’t answer right away. Just let a smirk tug at the edge of his mouth, slow and lazy.

The truth? He’s known the answer since he was thirteen. Since the first time you looked at him with that stupid and annoying smile, like he wasn’t just the loud kid with a guitar, like he mattered. Since the summers spent in backyards and basements, your laughter tucked into the background of every song he ever played, even if no one else could hear it.

You’d always been it.

And that was exactly why he’d never say a word.

Because Maxwell never risked things he couldn’t win. Not you, with your excruciating nonchalance, while he struggled to keep himself from kissing you. Did you know already ? He wasn't exactly subtle with it. Everyone knew not to get too close.

He adjusted the rearview mirror, eyes flicking up. Just for a second. Just long enough to find your reflection staring back, to see your perfect face. The one he’d always adore.

He stayed confident. Calm. Unreadable.

“I don’t have a type,” he lied, cool and smooth, like it was just another lyric in a verse he’d already mastered. “I’ve always been more into things I can’t have.”

He hit the gas, the engine rising like the start of a chorus. And just like that, the moment was gone in a blur of music and lights. The others spoke between them, and his hand, slightly trembling, softly met your thigh.

"Hm, you lookin' distracted, kittycat... Too heavy on the tequila, or disappointed by tonight’s show?"