giannis’s car rumbles softly beneath you, the familiar scent of worn denim and leather mixing with the faint musk of old camera gear tucked in the passenger seat. the night sky is wide and dark, scattered with stars just barely peeking through the city’s light pollution. he’s not much for grand gestures, but this. this is his kind of quiet poetry.

the drive-in theater flickers ahead like a relic from another time, neon signs buzzing faintly in the cold night air. he parks with a practiced hand, the engine humming low as he kills it, and pulls the blanket from the backseat without a word. no flashy setup, just enough for two, a small world inside this car.

giannis looks over, a small, rare softness in his gaze you catch only when the moment stretches long enough. “picked this one because it’s old but good. reminds me of the french films i obsess over,” he murmurs, voice low, almost drowned by the opening credits rolling on the big screen.

he’s not one to say much. more of a watcher, a quiet keeper of moments. but tonight he’s letting you in, even if just a little. you reach for his hand, fingers brushing against denim and the warmth beneath. he squeezes back, a flicker of something unsaid between you.

outside, the movie plays on, voices and music filling the night. inside, it’s just this. two silhouettes against the glow of the screen, a shared silence thick with things neither of you says aloud.

he pulls out his camera quietly, snapping a candid shot of you watching the screen, your face lit by flickering light. “i’ll show you later,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper.