Knees to chest Joohyun sat, taking up as little space as she could. She had noticed they were about the same size, but stretched out like that Seungwan appeared just a tad bit slenderer… and far more shameless (chances were, however, it was just her). To look straight into the blonde’s eyes she found particularly hard — not that she needed, anyway, to be reminded that hers was a pretty pair: strikingly kind and shone as brightly as the stars above the roof of the automobile — but it was undoubtedly harder to gaze away. The brunette pretends she hasn’t tattooed in her memory the way moonlight caresses her bare skin and shadows eclipse all the right places; feigns ignorance towards the green-eyed monster gnawing at the back of her neck: she wants once again to touch. While the strong smell of Nicorette dissipates the very moment Seungwan rolls down a window, their musk prevails throughout. Mid-air, too, drifts the sound of a comfortable silence permeated only by the latest news faintly told in the solid voice of whatever radio broadcaster and the mellow purring of the car’s engine… they spend a whole two minutes and twenty-seven seconds like that until Irene is asked the same question a fifth time: “Are you alright?”

          “Yeah,” comes her reply, and Joohyun doesn’t lie.

           Seungwan doesn’t look satisfied. “You are not lying, are you?”

          “Honest.”

          “Then why won’t you say anything?”

          “I’m just quiet,” explains Joohyun hurriedly. “It’s who I am.”

          Seungwan heaves a sigh. “I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

          “I didn’t do anything I didn’t want, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

          Her comeback seems to put the blonde at ease, and upon them dawns another of those comfortable silences that lasts a little over a full minute.

          “Hey, what kind of music do you play?”

          Suddenly, Seungwan's eyes shine a brand new light when she whips her head towards the meek inquirer and Joohyun swears she can see her chest swell with unspoken pride as she opens to tell her that her band plays “Everything, but mostly indie rock.”

          “Who’s your favorite artist?”

          “That’s a hard one.”

          “I get it if you can’t answer.”

          “I like stuff like The and The Smiths and The xx…” Joohyun looks puzzled; Seungwan muffles a snort. “But I guess my favourite, favourite would be Bob Dylan.”

          “Oh, I know perhaps one or two songs by him.”

          The brunette expects a judgemental look to be thrown her way — one of those her friends so often direct at her (“How do you not have Snapchat?” or “How can you not tell the Kardashians apart?” or “How are you not laughing? This meme literally made me piss my pants!”) — but it never comes. Instead the blonde shifts forward, maneuvers over the centre console and stretches for the glove compartment; Joohyun watches curiously as she fishes out a handful of CDs (who still kept those, anyway?) and pops one in. Her fingertip skips one, two, three, four songs… until it hovers over the stereo and upon her lips dances an appeased smile, which Joohyun has the pleasure to witness when Seungwan slouches in the backseat.

          “This one might just be my favourite song of his.”

          “What is it called?”

          “Shelter from the Storm.”

          They close their eyes simultaneously. Joohyun listens attentively.

          “I’ll drive you home whenever you want,” offers Seungwan.

          “Once this song ends.”

          “It goes on and on for a while, I must warn you.”

          It’s 2:17am. “It’s okay.”