Tucker’s car is filled with the sweet scent of iced coffee that’s just a little too sugary, and the all too familiar sound of his voice as he talks to the camera.

His fingers are intertwined with yours just out of shot — loose enough to be absentminded, but tight enough to remind you that he’ll probably turn into an insufferable mess if you let go — and his gaze keeps flicking away from the Instagram live he’s supposed to be doing, to your free hand resting on the steering wheel.

Most of the comments rolling through at a lagging pace are referring to — and making fun of — how obviously in love with you he is. It’s almost unmistakable, especially considering the way he looks at you immediately after making another risky joke just to see if it make you laugh, or the way he’s telling his audience to “keep saying nice things about her, she loves that shit”.

His grip tightens on your hand, almost subconsciously, and you can’t quite work out if he’s trying to reassure himself that you’re there, or make sure you don’t let go. And knowing him, it’s probably a mix of both. It’s like he can’t go five minutes without touching some part of you, and he can’t even be bothered to hide it.

He squeezes your hand again, this time lifting it up for the camera to see. It’s safe to say that he’s taking any and every chance to show you off to his audience. The cool metal of his rings presses against your skin as he clings to you, and it’s strangely comforting. Like a reminder that this is real, that he’s here with you right now.

“You guys know I’m literally obsessed with her, right? Like, fully fucking deranged. I should be studied.”

He can feel you roll your eyes without even having to look.

And strangely, something about this — the soft touches, the condensation dripping down the side of his iced coffee, the sarcastic comments with just a little bit of truth in them — feels like home. Like he was always meant to be here with you, like every moment in his life has been leading up to you.

And he wouldn’t want it any other way.