The mixtape player rested on Remus’ lap, the headphone jack plugged in, the set shared between the two of you. Outside, it was quiet—dark and rainy, water threading down the windows of the parked truck. Sometimes it was him who needed the air, the motion, the escape. Sometimes it was you.

Tonight, it was both of you.

The cold had crept in steadily, and Remus had finally reached for the fleece blanket in the backseat, draping it across your shoulders and his. You didn’t flinch, only leaning in more towards him. He pretended he didn’t notice how much that meant.

He could’ve stayed like this forever—drifting between nowhere and nothing, music playing low, your arm brushing his now and then beneath the blanket. This felt more like life than anything else ever did.

And yet, responsibility loomed. It always did.

But not yet. Not when you were this close. Not when the occasional glance at you made the rest of the world fall away.

“You should skip the next one,” Remus murmured, not quite looking at you.

He nodded at the player, still loosely holding one side of the headphones between you.

He should have brought another mixtape. Because ‘Slow Ride’ by Foghat—a song with implications—didn’t belong in this fragile, perfect moment.

Not when the two of you were just friends.