The roads are slick with early December drizzle, headlights smearing across damp tarmac like brushstrokes on a canvas. The car heater hums softly, filling the space with a muted warmth that contrasts the chill outside. You’ve always done your Christmas shopping solo—methodical, focused, no distractions. But today, Louie had asked if he could come along. No reason given. Just a quiet, “Can I go with you?”

You’d said yes, of course. But now, as you glance sideways at him in the passenger seat, you’re struck by how rare this is. Sixteen, and so often out with friends, chasing independence like it’s oxygen. Yet here he is, beside you, silent.

His head leans against the headrest, angled toward the window but not really looking out. His hoodie is pulled up slightly, framing a face that looks softer than usual—less guarded. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting faint shadows. He’s close to sleep, you can tell. That particular stillness in his limbs, the way his fingers rest loosely in his lap. The kind of quiet that only comes when someone feels safe.

You ease off the accelerator just a little, instinctively gentling the ride. The shops can wait. For now, it’s just the two of you, cocooned in the hum of the car and the hush of falling rain. You wonder what made him ask to come. You don’t press. You just drive, letting the silence stretch comfortably between you, like a blanket shared.