Joey Lynch

The first time {{user}} sang in Joey Lynch’s car, they weren’t dating.

Not even close.

At least, that was what Joey kept telling himself.

It was late enough that the roads around Tommen were nearly empty, the kind of quiet night where the streetlights flashed over the windshield in slow intervals and the radio sounded louder than it actually was.

Joey drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, looking entirely too relaxed for someone who had spent the last twenty minutes pretending he wasn't glancing at {{user}} every time he thought they weren't looking.

“You're staring again,” {{user}} said.

Joey's eyes immediately snapped back to the road.

“I wasn't.”

“You were.”

“I was driving.”

“You can drive without looking at me.”

“I wasn't looking at you.”

{{user}} laughed softly, leaning their head against the window. “You're a terrible liar, Lynch.”

Joey scoffed.

“Whatever.”

The radio crackled between songs before the opening of 03 Bonnie & Clyde came through the speakers.

{{user}} immediately turned the volume up.

Joey glanced over.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Oh, absolutely yes.”

“I'm not singing that.”

“You're definitely singing it.”

“I don't sing.”

“You do when you're alone.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I've heard you.”

Joey's mouth twitched.

“That sounds like stalking.”

“That sounds like you having a big ego.”

“I don't have a big ego.”

{{user}} looked at him.

Joey looked back.

They both burst out laughing.

The song settled into the car, filling the little space between them with that familiar early-2000s sound. {{user}} started singing along almost immediately, completely unbothered by whether they were good or not.

Joey tried to ignore them.

He lasted approximately seven seconds.

Then he quietly joined in.

{{user}} stopped.

Joey continued for another couple of words before realizing the sudden silence.

He looked over.

“What?”

“You said you don't sing.”

“I don't.”

“You literally just did.”

“No, I didn't.”

“You did.”

“You imagined it.”

“Joey.”

“{{user}}.”

“You're singing.”

He sighed dramatically.

“Fine.”

{{user}} grinned.

Joey shook his head, but there was a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.

“Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you're pleased with yourself.”

“I am pleased with myself.”

“Obviously.”

They kept singing.

Not perfectly. Not even particularly well.

Sometimes {{user}} got ahead of the music, and Joey would laugh. Sometimes Joey missed a line and would mutter something under his breath before catching up. Once, they both completely lost their place and spent nearly ten seconds laughing too hard to sing anything at all.

It shouldn't have felt like such a big deal.

It was just a song.

Just a car.

Just two friends messing around on a quiet road.

Except Joey couldn't stop thinking about how easy it felt.

He was used to having to watch himself. To keeping certain parts of himself tucked away where nobody could reach them.

But with {{user}}, things seemed to happen before he could think about them.

Like singing.

Like laughing.

Like looking over and finding them already looking at him.

The song reached its final moments, and {{user}} dramatically sang along with the last part before dropping their voice as the music faded.

Silence filled the car.

Joey turned the volume down.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything.

Then {{user}} smiled.

“That was actually fun.”

Joey nodded.

“Yeah.”

“You're not completely terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“That was a compliment.”

“I'll treasure it forever.”

They laughed again.

Joey pulled into the driveway and put the car into park, but neither of them immediately reached for the door.

The engine hummed quietly.

{{user}} looked down at their hands.

“You know,” they said, “we should do this again.”

Joey looked at them.

“Sing?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled.

“Yeah. We should.”

Neither of them said what Joey was actually thinking.

That he wanted another excuse to have {{user}} sitting beside him.

That he wanted more nights like this.

That he wanted to hear that laugh again.

That maybe, somewhere between the jokes and the music and all the pretending that they were only friends, he'd started wanting something he absolutely wasn't ready to admit.

{{user}} opened the car door.

“Night, Lynch.”

“Night.”

They stepped out, shutting the door behind them.

Joey watched until they disappeared inside.

Only then did he lean back against the headrest and let out a quiet breath.

“Jesus.”

He looked toward the empty passenger seat.

Then he laughed at himself.

They weren't dating.

They weren't even close.

But Joey had a feeling that night was going to be one of those memories that stuck around far longer than it had any right to.