Dante smiled against her kiss, that little hum of hers melting something in his chest. When she pulled back, he stayed close for just a second longer–close enough to breathe her in, the faint hint of perfume and lipstick and the warmth that was all Fallon.
“Now we can go,” he echoed quietly, voice roughened by the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You keep that up, I might forget where we’re even headed.”
He stepped back just enough to open the car door for her, dipping his head a little like a shy kid playing at being a gentleman. When she slid in, he caught her eye through the windshield for a heartbeat before circling around to his side. He was glad he’d managed to hide the case in the back.
The drive wasn’t far, but he took it slow anyway. The kind of slow that made the night stretch, music low and the world dim enough that he could sneak glances at her every few seconds.
“You look–” he started, then faltered, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “Aye, hell, I was gonna say ‘nice,’ but that don’t even come close.”
One hand rested on the wheel, the other near hers on the console, close enough that if she reached out, he’d meet her halfway. “Happy birthday again, Fall. I’ve been looking forward to tonight for a long time.”
The drive curved toward the edge of town, where the lights thinned out and the world went quiet. “Promise it’s nothin’ shady,” he joked, glancing over at her. “No back-alley drag races, no secret heist. Just somethin’ I wanted to show you.”
The car rolled to a stop near the overlook–where the town spread out below, scattered lights blinking like fireflies under a velvet sky. It wasn’t fancy, but it was quiet, peaceful, and his. He’d come here after races, after bad days, after everything. It had become a staple of his over the past few months, and now he wanted it to be theirs.
“Stay here a sec,” he said softly, slipping out into the cool night. The trunk opened with a faint creak, and he carefully lifted out the guitar case. His palms were sweating, which felt ridiculous after all the hours he’d spent picturing this exact moment.
“Okay,” Dante murmured, holding the case like something sacred. “So–I’ve been savin’ up for this for a while.” He unclipped the latches, the soft click of metal breaking the night’s stillness, and lifted the lid. Inside, the Washburn gleamed–a warm, chocolate-brown guitar, perfectly polished, strings ready to sing.
“I, uh, wanted you to have this. A songbird should have some accompaniment, yeah?” He hesitated, heart hammering. “And, uh-” a shaky laugh escaped him- “I was hopin’ maybe, uh, I could have a piece of that too. Officially.” His voice softened, the world holding its breath with him. “Fallon, will you be my girl?”