"You have songs for moments," he continues. "Songs that resonate with what you're feeling right then."

And shit if he isn't completely correct.

His observation hangs in the air between us, weighty as a confession, and I find myself momentarily speechless. I turn away, staring out at the passing lights that blur like shooting stars, trying to mask how his words stir something deep within me. It's ludicrous to think he might know me better than I know myself. Yet, as the engine hums beneath us, I can't shake the feeling that he might be right.

"Tell me I'm wrong," he says softly, confidence in his voice making my skin prickle.

"You're wrong," I reply, my voice weaker than I'd like.

"You're lying," he laughs softly, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

"I am not," I insist, putting on a defiant front.

"Then why did you just scrunch your nose?" he points out with a gentle tease.

I blink, taken aback. "My nose?"

"When you lie, you scrunch your nose." His tone softens, filled with an affectionate familiarity that aches. "You know how I know that?"

I remain silent, the atmosphere thickening around us. He watches me, his gaze intense, silently urging me to look at him. When our eyes meet, there's a gravity in his look that has always drawn me in.

"Because I know you," he whispers, the space between us charged with an unspoken understanding.

The words hit me harder than they should, slicing through the air with an accuracy that's almost cruel. I hate that he's right, and how he's always been able to see through me like I'm made of crystal.

And the worst part?

He knows it.

I feel my cheeks heating up, that familiar prickling of vulnerability spreading under my skin. He smirks, an infuriatingly triumphant expression painting his face as he leans in close enough that I can count his eyelashes in the passing streetlights.

"Your poker face sucks, Leni. It's what makes you such a terrible liar."

My heart skips at the way he says my nickname—it's soft, almost reverent, and it jerks me back to a time I thought I'd packed away in the dusty corners of my memory. Nobody has called me that since Dad was around. And he's used it more times in the space of three days than anyone else has in over a year. Hearing it now, from him, feels like a punch to the gut, like jumping into deep water, or falling without knowing where you'll land.

Does he even realize what that does to me?

Does he understand the weight that name carries, the flood of memories it unleashes?

I sneak a look at him, my eyes flickering up through my lashes, wondering how he sees me. Do I still look like that awkward eleven-year-old with braces and glasses, trailing behind him like a lost star in his orbit? Or does he see something more, something beyond just little Leni?