The vintage radio of Nate’s Mustang crackles with static, setting a backdrop of nostalgia. My fingers find the dial, dancing across its worn surface until the unmistakable opening riff of "Mr. Brightside" crashes through the speakers.

Nate lets out a low, amused chuckle that sends warmth spreading through my chest. His eyes catch mine for a split second in the dim dashboard light, and something electric passes between us. I turn the volume up until the bass thrums through my bones, and dive headfirst into the lyrics, singing with the kind of abandon that only comes when you're either completely broken or perfectly whole.

I glance over and catch Nate trying to hide a full-on grin, his usual cool demeanor melting away. The sight of him like this, guard down and genuine, makes my heart stumble over itself. His smile is contagious, spreading through me like wildfire, and suddenly my spirits are soaring higher than they have in forever.

The wind rushes through the open window, tangling my hair as I belt out the lyrics with a freedom I haven't felt in months. Nate's fingers tap rhythmically on the steering wheel, his eyes flicking between the road and me like he can't quite help himself. I catch him watching and flash a quick, carefree smile between lines, pretending not to notice how his breath catches slightly. The song dwindles into its last notes, leaving me breathless and giggling. Nate shakes his head, a lopsided grin breaking through his usual reserve, and my heart does that stupid flutter thing it always does when he looks at me like that.

"That was... something," he chuckles, the warmth in his tone wrapping around me.

I sink deeper into the cool leather, feeling its smooth embrace—trying to hold onto this moment like it might slip away if I breathe too hard. "It's my favorite song," I say, my voice riding that thin line between vulnerability and defiance.

He shoots me a look. That knowing smirk that does something ridiculous to my insides—makes my stomach twist and my heart do these stupid little somersaults.

"You don't have a favorite song," he says. Not a question. A statement.

"Uh, yeah I do."

His eyes are doing that thing. That infuriating thing where he's picking me apart, seeing right through me.

"You think you have one single favorite song?" he asks, leaning in closer. His voice drops—soft, conspiratorial—close enough that I can smell his cologne mixing with leather, close enough that my breath catches.

"I just told you it is," I retort, but we both know I'm losing whatever argument this is.

"Nora..." The way he says my name—god. "I know you. And I know you don't have a favorite song."

He's right, and we both know it. Songs aren't static for me. They're living, breathing things—snapshots of emotions, little time capsules that capture exactly how it feels to be alive in a single, perfect moment.