The car smelled like mint gum and rain. It had started coming down while they were still tangled in the backseat, breathless, silent. The kind of silence that wasn’t new between them—but tonight it felt heavier. Full of unspoken things.

Joey sat in the driver's seat now, hoodie half on, one arm draped lazily over the wheel. She was in the passenger seat, legs tucked under her, his jacket draped over her bare shoulders.

Her fingers twisted the sleeve.

“I think,” she started, voice barely above the quiet music playing from the radio, “we should stop.”

Joey blinked. “Stop what?”

“This.” She gestured between them. “The... whatever this is.”

His jaw clenched, and he looked away, out the rain-speckled windshield. “Right.”

“I just—” Her voice wavered. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, Joey, but I’ve fallen for you. And I know that’s not what this was supposed to be, and I’d rather go back to being friends than pretend I’m not in love with you.”

He didn’t answer.

The quiet stretched long.

Finally, Joey turned to her, eyes dark and unreadable in the dim.

And then he whispered it—low, like it hurt to say. “How can I be your friend, when I know the way you taste?”

Her breath caught.

Joey stared at her like she was something he couldn’t have but couldn’t let go of either.

“I’m not built for pretending,” he added, voice rough. “Not with you.”

She swallowed hard, blinking fast.

Neither of them said anything else. The rain kept falling. The air between them felt like it might shatter.

And still, Joey didn’t start the car.