I let him look for a second longer, enjoying the way he chews on his bottom lip—a habit he thinks makes him look pensive but really just makes me want to bite it for him.
I press the horn.
It’s not a polite beep. It’s a deep, resonant blare that makes Sihwan jump about a foot in the air. His head snaps toward me, eyes wide, ready to curse out whoever dared to startle him.
I hit the button, and the tinted window glides down smoothly.
The transformation on his face is poetry. He goes from irritation to confusion, and then, as his eyes rake over the sleek lines of the car, the low profile, and the emblem on the hood, his jaw practically unhinges. He loves money. It’s his fatal flaw, really. He loves status symbols, and I’m currently sitting inside a very loud, very fast one.
He stares at the car, then at me, then back at the car, looking personally offended that I own it.
"You getting in or what?" I call out, resting my arm on the door frame.
Sihwan blinks, snapping out of his trance, and stomps over to the curb. He bends down to look through the window, his scent—anxious spice and burnt sugar—wafting in.
"Well? You waiting for a written invitation?" I nod toward the back seat. "Throw your shit in the back."
Sihwan blinks, shaking off his stupor. He opens the rear door carefully, treating the handle like it might shatter if he grips it with his usual gym-bro enthusiasm, and stows his bag. When he slides into the passenger seat, the scent of expensive leather mixes with his nervous, spicy pheromones. He runs a hand over the dashboard, eyes wide as he takes in the carbon fiber trim and the digital console.
I suppress a smirk as I shift into gear and pull away from the curb, the engine giving a throaty growl that makes Sihwan’s breath hitch.
"What's with the face?" I ask, glancing over as we merge into traffic. "Not the model you thought I'd pick?"
Sihwan snorts, sinking deeper into the bucket seat. "Honestly? I half-expected you to pick me up on your motorcycle."
I muse, tapping the turn signal. "That would make an interesting first impression on your parents I'm sure."
I feel his eyes on me, heavy and scrutinizing. He’s not looking at the road; he’s examining my outfit, probably calculating the cost of my shirt versus his entire wardrobe. I take the opportunity to do a little inspection of my own at the next red light.
"I didn't know you owned anything but athletic clothing," I say, letting my eyes drag over the navy fabric stretching tight across his chest. "No Under Armed logo? No varsity lettering? I’m shocked."
He actually went to the trouble of styling his hair back, too. It’s gelled, but not in that stiff, over-processed way he usually does for school to look 'cool.' This is severe. Neat. It exposes his forehead and makes him look older, sharper.
Sihwan blows out a harsh breath and yanks down the visor mirror, frowning at his reflection. He turns his head side to side, critically examining the cut.
"Doesn't matter," he mutters, smoothing a hand over the side of his head. "My parents are probably just going to complain about my hair color. Or say it's too long. They always find something."
I keep my eyes on the road, merging smoothly into the right lane, but my attention is entirely on the passenger seat. Sihwan is emitting nervous energy, picking at his trousers. The anxiety rolling off him is souring the air in the cabin, spiking through the leather and climate control.
"I like the color," I say, breaking the silence. I keep my voice flat, casual. "The chestnut. It works well with your skin tone. Makes you look warm."
The fidgeting stops instantly.
The silence stretches out, heavy and weird, until I actually have to glance over to make sure he hasn't had a stroke. Sihwanis staring at me, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion, like I just started speaking French.
I arch a brow, glancing back at traffic. "What?"
Sihwan blinks rapidly, shaking his head a little. "Nothing. I just... I figured you’d say something more high-brow. That the dye is too flashy or tacky or something."
I let out a short, incredulous snort. "Sihwan, I literally have a tiger and a demon tattooed across my chest and shoulders. I’m hardly the poster child for conservative aesthetics."
"Yeah, but you keep yours covered by ridiculous coats and turtlenecks at all times," he points out, gesturing vaguely at my button-down. "You look like a priest half the time."
"I wear the coats because I like them, not to hide anything," I correct him, tapping the wheel. "And I got the ink because I liked the art. It was for me. Not for attention."
I glance at him again. The streetlights flicker over his face, catching the warm brown of his hair.
"I figure the hair is your version of that," I say with a shrug. "It’s self-expression. I can hardly look down on that when I’m walking around with permanent ink on half my torso."
