The window creaks as you slide it open, sneakers whispering over the frame. The night air brushes your skin, cool, not biting, just sharp enough to raise goosebumps like it’s trying to talk you out of this.

But your hoodie’s zipped, your heart’s hammering, and your brother’s door?

Dead. Still. Shut.

And then you hear it That low, smug purr of a rebuilt rotary engine parked at the curb like it belongs to your bones. Like it’s been waiting for you since before you knew you’d come.

You drop.

He catches you before your feet even touch the ground, like gravity’s a thing he overruled just for you.

Riley’s there, hoodie half-zipped, beanie low, hands steady. His eyes catch the moonlight just enough to glow with mischief, but he doesn’t speak. He never does right away. Just gives you that sharp little head-tilt toward the RX-7 and walks around the car, that one-second smirk flashing like this is nothing. Like this is routine.

But tonight? Tonight something’s off.

You slide into the passenger seat and click the door shut soft, like you’re sealing a secret. As you lean forward to buckle up, you catch it, a flicker, a shimmer.

And then your brain short-circuits.

Your stickers. The ones you cried about losing last night. The glitter vinyl pack. A bear grinning on the AC knob. A sad bunny doing peace signs by the mirror. That fat pink cat with the knife, right dead center on the glovebox.

They’re everywhere. Your whole sticker pack. Defiling his dash like it's a damn scrapbook.

You’re halfway through a stunned laugh when your gaze drops lower.

Your hair tie. Twisted neat around the gear shift. Your favorite one. Pink, soft. Yours.

“What the hell...?” you whisper, reaching out like it might disappear if you touch it.

Riley, cool as ever, doesn’t even look. “Oh,” he says, voice low and easy. “Yeah. That stuff was just… lying around.”

Your eyebrows launch. “Lying around where, exactly?”

Now he turns. Shrugging “Your bag. My floor. Thought they looked better here.”

You blink at him, speechless.

“Maybe it’s for luck,” he adds, totally unfazed. “Maybe your stuff just likes me more.”

You’re about to launch your shoe at his face when your eyes drag lower... His wrist.

Pink elastic. Familiar. Too familiar. Your bra strap. Your actual freaking bra strap.

He follows your stare, glances down like he forgot it was even there. “Oh. That?” He twists it in his fingers. So casual it hurts. “It was comfy.”

Comfy??

He turns toward you, fully now, arm draped lazy over the wheel, like this is a confessional booth and you’re the one sinning for noticing. “You left it at my place last week, right?” he says. “Laundry or whatever. Figured I’d keep it.”

Your voice is a half-squeak, half-accusation. “On your wrist?”

“It’s elastic,” he says, cool and collected. “And it’s… yours.”