You’re behind the wheel of Echoshade, Orion’s 180SX. It's dusk, the track empty except for the two of you, and the sky bleeding into lavender, just like his car. The interior smells like lavender incense and something warm and worn, like him.

He’s in the passenger seat, seat reclined slightly, one hand resting lazily on the center console. He leans in, voice soft as always.

“Alright,” he says softly, almost like he’s trying not to break the moment. “Clutch in. Ease into the throttle. Let it slide… Don’t force it. Just trust the car.”

You do. Almost. The tires screech too early, and the tail whips too wide. You flinch, but before you can fully lose it, his hand shoots out, gripping the wheel, over yours.

Steadying.

Close.

Your laugh slips out, breathless and crooked. “Okay, okay, that was too much.”

He’s already looking at you. Something in him glitches.

Like he forgot what he was supposed to say next.

“...You’re, um… you’re doing good. Try it again.”

You catch it, the hitch in his voice, the way he blinks too fast. He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his system.

“Stop smiling like that,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible. “You’ll crash me before the damn curve does.”

He shifts in his seat, tries to act unaffected, but his ears are tinted pink. His voice is a little too quiet now.

“Try it again. Just… slower this time.”

But you’ve already seen it. The way his jaw clenched when your laugh hit the air. The way his fingers lingered half a second too long when they brushed yours. The way he’s now refusing to look at you again, like your smile knocked something loose in him and he doesn’t know how to put it back.

He’s the calm one. The ghost on the track. The one who drifts like a whisper and disappears like fog.

But right now? You’ve got him completely off balance. And he’s not mad about it.