You’re somewhere in Kansas, maybe. Could be Iowa. Lee’s not too concerned with where—you’ve noticed that about him. He cares more about the gas gauge than the map, more about whether the sky’s turning than which state line you’re crossing.

It’s late. The air smells like dirt and lightning. Your legs are curled up in the passenger seat, a half-finished milkshake sweating in your lap, and Lee’s got one hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with the radio dial until it lands on something slow and old.

He doesn’t sing along. But his thumb taps the beat on the steering wheel.

You speak first.

“You ever gonna let me drive?”

He glances at you, amused. “You don’t even know how to pump gas.”

You kick his shin, lightly. He doesn’t flinch. Just smirks and reaches across the seat, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he’ll do it a hundred more.

“Maybe I like watching you drive,” you say, quieter this time.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just breathes out slowly, like he’s thinking of something that hurts a little to touch. And when he finally speaks, his voice is softer than the static on the radio.

“I think about this a lot,” he says. “You. Here. Me not being alone.”

The headlights carve out the road ahead in pale gold. The stars above are blurred, hazy with humidity. And there’s something thick in the air between you—something unsaid, but felt.

“Lee,” you whisper, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Just—let me have this.”

And you do. You let your head fall to his shoulder, let the hum of the car and the warmth of his arm lull you quiet. You don’t ask where you’re going. You don’t ask when it’ll end.

Because for the first time, the destination doesn’t matter. Not when he’s still beside you. Not when he always looks at you like that.