The car smelled like rain and vanilla. Louis had borrowed some old convertible from a friend — something red and a little beat-up, with leather seats that stuck faintly to your skin. The windows were rolled down even though the night was cool. Wind tangled your hair, strands catching in your lip gloss.

You had your knees up on the passenger seat, bare legs crossed, his hoodie swallowing her whole frame. The cuffs slid past your hands, soft and worn.

He glanced over at her at a stoplight, one arm on the wheel, the other draped casually across the back of her seat. “You look so pretty. Especially when you steal my clothes,” he said, accent coating his statement as if it were a soft blanket. Not as a line. Just as fact.

{{user}} laughed — quiet, surprised, almost shy. “You think so?”

He nodded once, like it was obvious. “Yeah. Like you belong in them.”

The light turned green. The city blurred. They passed neon signs and corner stores, puddles reflecting the glow of streetlights like cracked glass.

Louis drove with an ease that was almost cocky, one hand flicking the turn signal, thumb brushing the gearshift. His hands were lean, tendons visible, knuckles pale where they gripped the wheel. Hands that looked soft but felt like something steadier — like they’d anchor her if she reached out.

“You’re so American,” he said suddenly, the phrase had been uttered a lot to her by him, but seemed new each time he said it, his accent soft around the word.

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smirked. “Everything. The way you sit with your feet on the dash, the way you laugh like it’s a dare. The way you talk about your coffee order like it’s a religion.”

He looked at her again, just for a second too long, eyes flicking down to where her legs disappeared under his hoodie. Something in her chest shifted. Like a record skipping to a new track.

She turned her face toward the window, cheeks warming. Outside, the bridge was coming up, steel beams and cables stretching into the night sky like a skeleton. The skyline glittered behind it.

He reached over and flicked the radio on. Some old indie band, guitar fuzz and a lazy beat. “This one’s yours,” he said. “Makes me think of you.”

The car hit a bump. Her foot slid off the dash. His hand caught her knee before she could steady herself, thumb brushing against the inside of it. He didn’t move it right away. She didn’t tell him to.

She wanted to say something. Something about how his hands made hell seem cold. About how she was tired of feeling like a headline but with him it felt like a secret. About how she didn’t sleep well when he wasn’t around.

“Careful,” he said.