I wait where I always wait after games.

A few blocks from the school, past the last stretch of noise, where the town thins out and pretends it's countryside. The road dips slightly here, like it's trying to get away from itself. Streetlights line the curve in uneven intervals, yellow pools of light with dark gaps between them. If you stand in the wrong spot, you disappear for a second.

The hills sit low on the horizon, barely there, like someone smudged the outline with their thumb. The moon hangs above them — not dramatic, not full. Just present. Watching without getting involved.

It's quiet.

Too quiet.

Not like the field, where everything pressed in on me at once — sound, bodies, lights, expectation. Here there's space. Enough that my thoughts stretch out. Enough that I can hear them clearly.

I don't like what they're saying.

They're saying things I've been avoiding all evening.

They're saying maybe he didn't look for you because he didn't need to.

They're saying maybe you've been filling a space he's already moved past.

They're saying maybe you're only invisible now because you've always been optional.

I press my hands into the pockets of my jacket, curl my fingers tight like I can squeeze the thoughts out.

This is the only place I ever wanted to belong.

I don't want to hear that maybe I don't anymore.

Headlights crest the hill.

I know it's him before the car slows — the way the beams dip just slightly, like he already knows where to stop. Tires crunch softly against the gravel shoulder. The engine idles. He doesn't honk. He never does.

I walk over and open the passenger door.

The inside of the car smells like sweat and grass and that stupid vanilla air freshener he keeps buying even though it makes my head hurt. He's in his hoodie, hair damp at the temples, jaw tight enough that I can see it flex.

I get in slowly.

Not because I'm trying to make a point.

Because my body's lagging behind my intentions.

The door shuts. The sound feels heavier than it should.

He doesn't start the car.

The engine keeps idling, low and uneven. The dashboard glows faintly blue. Outside, the road stretches empty in both directions, like we've paused the world at a bad moment.

I wait.

He waits longer.

The silence presses in. Not angry. Just dense.

"So," I say finally, because I always do this part. "You were... really good tonight."

It comes out softer than I meant. Honest. I mean it. He was.

He lets out a breath through his nose. Not a laugh. Not a scoff.

"Who was good?" he asks.

I blink. "What?"

He turns his head slowly, like he's making sure I'm looking at him when he says it.

"Me," he says. "Or Jake."

For a second, my brain doesn't catch up. The name lands late.

"...Jake?" I repeat, stupidly.

"The guy," he says. "With his arm on you."

My chest tightens — not sharp, just that familiar internal oh.

"That's not—" I start, then stop. My mouth goes dry. "That's not what that was."

He stares at me, eyes dark in the dash light. He hasn't raised his voice. That's worse.

"Then what was it?" he asks. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like he was pretty comfortable."

"I didn't ask him to do that," I say quickly. Too quickly. I hate that. "He just— it was loud and he leaned in and—"

"Why were you talking to him at all?" Landon cuts in.

There it is.

My shoulders pull in a little, automatic. "He came up to me. I didn't—"

"I told you," he says, voice lower now, tighter. "I told you to stay away from the varsity guys."

I blink at him. The words don't sting the way they should. They just land heavy, like something I'm supposed to already know.

"I don't hang out with them," I say. "He was just... there. I was coming to you with Em."

Landon exhales through his nose. He rubs a hand over his face, like he's trying to wipe something off. "I know. I know. I just—" He stops.

He stares out through the windshield for a second. The field lights are still visible in the distance, pale smears against the dark. His jaw works like he's chewing on something hard.

"I saw him," he says finally. "The way he was smiling at you. Like he thought he could."

"Could what?"

"Nothing," Landon says quickly. Too quickly. "I don't know. It just—"

"I didn't do anything." I hate how small I sound. Like guilty of something I didn't do.

"I didn't say you did."

"But you're acting like I did."

He turns toward me then. Really looks at me. His expression isn't angry. It's unsettled. That's worse.

"I just don't like it," he says again, quieter this time. "Seeing people look at you like that."

The dashboard light hums. The engine keeps idling, like it's waiting for us to decide something.

I shrug, small. "It was loud. People were looking everywhere."

He nods, but it's the kind that doesn't mean agreement. More like he's filing it away, not satisfied.

"I don't know why guys think they can," he mutters. Not finishing the sentence. Not needing to.

Something warm loosens in my chest. I don't examine it. I don't name it. I just let it sit there, because whatever it is, it feels better than the other stuff.

He shifts closer in his seat. Our knees touch. He doesn't pull away. Neither do I.

"You okay?" he asks, but he's already looking at my mouth when he says it.

"Yeah," I say.

It's automatic. It always is.

His hand comes up, hesitates for half a second — like he's checking if this is allowed — then settles on my thigh. Heavy. Familiar. Not gentle, not rough. Just there.

My breath catches anyway.

He leans in and kisses me, like he's done a hundred times before, but there's something off about it. Not bad. Just... charged. Like he's trying to fix something without knowing what broke.

I kiss him back because my body knows how. Because this part has rules. Because it's easier than sitting in that quiet.

His other hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer. The kiss gets messier, teeth bumping, breath uneven. He presses me back against the seat, not checking if I want to move, just assuming I'll go with it.

I do.

My chest fills with that familiar rush — relief, maybe.

The sense of being chosen. Wanted. Still here.

But it doesn't settle the way it used to.

It flares and then just... hangs there, awkward, like a smile you're holding too long.

Landon pulls back for air, forehead resting against mine. His breathing's heavy. I can feel it in my ribs.

"Don't," he says quietly.

I don't ask what he means.

"Okay," I say anyway, because I always do.

He kisses me again, harder this time, shorter. Like punctuation. Like he's drawing a line and daring the world to cross it.

Then he pulls away abruptly and turns forward, hand dropping back to the wheel.

He starts the car.

The sudden movement makes my stomach dip. The headlights sweep over the road, the hills reappearing in fragments. Streetlights pass, one by one, steady and indifferent.

I stare out the window, my reflection faint and warped in the glass. My lips feel warm. My chest feels... tired.

Whatever that moment gave me is already slipping through my fingers.

But the thought that stays — the one I don't push away — is simple and stubborn and small:

He still cares.

And that means I'm not invisible yet.

***

I stare out the window.

The road slips past in pieces — asphalt, grass, the soft blur of trees — all of it dim and half-there under the streetlights. Landon's driving now, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the rim like he's keeping time with something only he can hear.

I let my forehead rest against the glass.

It's stupid how easily my brain does this. How it reaches backward the second the present starts feeling wrong.

Freshman year.

Back when neither of us was supposed to be driving at all.

He'd texted me come outside and then quietly and then I swear I know what I'm doing.

I remember sneaking out, heart slamming against my ribs like it knew better. His mom's car was parked crooked at the curb, engine on but lights off, like it was hiding. Landon was hunched over the wheel, shoulders tight, staring straight ahead like if he moved too much the universe would notice.

"You good?" I whispered, climbing in.

"No," he said immediately. "Get your seatbelt on."

"I thought you said you knew how to drive."

"I said I knew how to start it."

That should've scared me more than it did.

He pulled away from the curb way too slow, then overcorrected and jerked the wheel like the car had insulted him.

"Jesus," I muttered. "You're gonna wake the whole street."

"I am literally shaking," he said. "Why am I shaking?"

"You're not supposed to be doing this."

"That's not helping."

Every stop sign felt like a test we were failing. He kept braking too early, then too late. At one point he stalled and just stared at the dashboard like it had betrayed him.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Don't panic."

"I'm not panicking."

"You're gripping the door."

I looked down. My fingers were locked around the handle.

"Okay," I said. "Maybe a little."

He laughed — sharp, breathless, a little hysterical — and somehow that made my chest loosen. We were both scared. That felt... even.

We passed the ice cream place without planning to, both of us looking at it at the same time.

"Oh my god," he said. "Ice cream."

"It's closed."

"Still."

He slowed down like he might actually stop, then shook his head. "Nope. Bad idea. That's how people notice."

So he kept driving.

Up the hill. The tall one. The one you're not supposed to be on unless you want trouble.

The car climbed unevenly, engine whining, and for a second I thought we might not make it.

"If we roll back I'm jumping," I said.

"You absolutely are not."

"I'm serious."

"Ev, shut up."

We made it to the top and parked crooked, tires half on gravel. The engine cut out and the silence hit all at once — loud enough that I thought someone would hear it from town.

My hands were still shaking.

"So," Landon said. "That was fine."

"That was not fine."

"But we're alive."

Barely.

We sat there for a second.

Then he exhaled, long and shaky, like he'd been holding it in the whole way up.

"Ev," he said. "We didn't die."

"Yet," I said.

That got a laugh out of him—short, breathless, relieved. He opened his door and the cold rushed in immediately, sharp and honest.

I hadn't noticed the cold on the way up. I didn't think either of us had.

Now it was all I could feel.

The town sprawled below us, dotted with warm yellow lights, houses clustered together like they were trying to keep each other company. Somewhere farther out, string lights blinked on rooftops. Someone had already started testing fireworks—early, messy pops that echoed and faded.

It smelled like winter.

I nudged his shoulder, gentle. "So," I said. "You gonna tell me why you decided to learn how to steal a car?"

"It's not stealing," he said automatically. "It's borrowing."

"Without permission."

"Temporarily."

I snorted. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, rocking back on his heels.

"Ryan got his license," he said. Casual tone. Not quite casual enough. "Dad wouldn't shut up about it on the call. Like it meant everything."

I didn't say anything. I didn't need to. I'd heard that tone before—the one that said I wanted him to look at me like that too without ever saying the words.

Landon stared out at the town, jaw tight. "It's just driving," he added. "It's not... heroic or whatever."

"But?" I asked.

He shrugged. "But it felt like something."

The wind kicked up again, and he shivered. I stepped closer without thinking. Our arms brushed. Neither of us moved away.

"Oh," he said suddenly, checking his phone. The screen lit his face blue. "It's almost midnight."

I followed his gaze to the sky. More fireworks now, farther out, colors blooming and disappearing before they could decide what they wanted to be.

We'd been doing this for years. Sneaking out. Sitting on curbs. Watching the town celebrate without us. Back when it was just sodas and shared headphones and whispering so our parents wouldn't hear.

This felt bigger. Scarier. Better.

"Ten," Landon said quietly.

"Nine."

Our shoulders touched fully now. The cold didn't feel as sharp.

"Eight."

"Seven."

Fireworks cracked somewhere to the left, red and gold spilling across the dark.

"Six."

"Five."

"Four."

He turned toward me. Hesitated. Like he was checking if this was allowed.

"Three."

I nodded. Small. Yes.

"Two."

"One."

The world erupted—fireworks everywhere, sound and light and shouting drifting up from the town below.

"Happy New Year," he said.

He leaned in and kissed me.

It wasn't perfect. Our noses bumped. He laughed under his breath, embarrassed, and I laughed too, because that was us. Then he tried again—slower this time, steadier. The cold faded. The noise faded. Everything narrowed to that small, careful space between us.

The kiss was warm.

It filled my chest in a way that felt new and right and terrifying all at once. Like something had clicked into place without asking permission.

That was one of the happiest night of my life.

I didn't know that yet. I just knew it had felt like standing somewhere high enough that the whole world finally made sense.

For a moment.

I remember thinking, oh.

This is it. This is what it's supposed to feel like.

The car hits a small bump now and jolts me back.

The road ahead is darker here. No fireworks. No hill. Just the hum of the engine and the quiet weight of everything neither of us is saying.

I don't look at him.

My lips still feel warm, but my chest doesn't follow.

Whatever sparked just... burned out too fast.

Left smoke. Left tiredness.

The car hums. The road unwinds.

I remember how that kiss felt like standing still while the world expanded around us.

This one feels like the world shrinking back into its usual shape.

The car slows before my house.

Not all the way — just enough that the headlights stop washing over the front porch. The engine idles, uneven, like it's thinking about cutting out but doesn't. A streetlight across the road flickers once, then steadies. My house sits there with its windows dark, looking smaller at night. It always does.

I keep my eyes forward.

There's a lot of quiet packed into this stretch of road. No crowd noise. No band. Just the hum of the engine and the faint tick as it cools.

My throat tightens. I swallow. It doesn't help much.

"Lily's birthday's coming up," I say.

It comes out flat. Like a fact I almost forgot.

Landon glances over. "Oh—yeah," he says. "Monday, right?"

I turn toward him before I mean to. Not fast. Just... enough.

"You remember?"

He huffs a small laugh. "Obviously. We always do it together. The three of us."

The words land softly. Too softly. Like something being set down instead of handed over.

I nod once. The motion feels heavier than it should. "Yeah. Three of us."

He doesn't look away right away. His gaze lingers on my face, like he's checking something without knowing what he's checking for. The dash light catches the edge of his cheekbone. His hands are still on the wheel, relaxed now.

"We'll do it together this year too, Ev," he says.

It's simple. Unloaded. Not framed like a promise.

And still—my throat tightens.

"Okay."

Of course we will.

We always do.

He leans in.

I don't move back. I don't move forward either. He closes the distance for both of us, like he's done a hundred times before. The kiss is gentle — quieter than the one earlier. Familiar. Easy. His mouth curves slightly, like he's smiling into it without realizing.

I kiss him back. Slowly. Carefully. Like if I do it the right way, it'll feel the way it's supposed to.

"I love you, Landon," I say.

The words come out soft. Unexamined. Something I've said so many times they don't snag on the way out anymore.

He hums, presses one more kiss to my mouth. "Love you too."

I sit there for another second, staring at the windshield, at the faint reflection of us layered over the dark street. I hold onto the warmth where his mouth was, even as it starts to fade.

Then I reach for the door handle.

It's cool under my fingers.

I step out into the night before I can think too hard about why that felt like something I needed.