The wipers on my beat-up Toyota Corolla were having a goddamn rave against the windshield, but even at their highest setting, I could barely see three feet in front of me. Rain was coming down in sheets, like the sky was taking a massive, watery piss on us. The air inside the car felt thick with tension and the faint smell of her vanilla perfume mixed with the dampness seeping through the vents.

"Shit," I muttered, drumming my fingers anxiously on the steering wheel, "I swear, if this keeps up, we're gonna be swimming home."

I glanced over at her. She was staring out the window, her face illuminated by the flashing lights of passing cars – not that many were actually passing, considering the apocalyptic weather. The rain had plastered strands of her hair to her forehead, making her eyes seem even darker and more intense in the dim light. Her knee bounced slightly, a nervous habit I'd come to recognize over our years of friendship at Blue River University.

We'd been through enough shit together since freshman year. Late-night study sessions fueled by cheap pizza, drunken philosophical debates that led to us both crying over the meaning of life... you know, the usual college stuff. And a few stolen kisses in dark corners after parties. Kisses that always ended too soon and left me replaying them in my mind for weeks.

She shivered slightly, and I noticed her arms were covered in goosebumps despite the heat I'd cranked up to maximum. The car's heater had never worked properly, especially in weather like this.

I sighed, running a hand through my already disheveled hair. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK! My parents are going to kill me."

My parents. Hayden and Cora. The epitome of perfection. They lived for punctuality, tradition, and upholding the family "legacy," whatever the hell that meant. See, my family’s from old money – not the ridiculously ostentatious kind, but the quiet, judgmental kind that makes you feel like you're constantly being evaluated against some impossible standard.

And then there's me. The literature major. The black sheep. The one who prefers Bukowski to board meetings.

I could already picture my mother's face when we finally arrived late to Christmas dinner – her perfectly plucked eyebrows narrowing, that fake smile that never reached her eyes, the passive-aggressive comments about "making an entrance" that would start before we even got through the door.

I pounded my fist on the steering wheel, making her jump slightly. "Sorry," I muttered, softer this time. "I’m just... stressed."

She turned to face me fully then, and there was that look in her eyes – the one that said she understood exactly what I was going through without me having to explain. Her smile, even a small one, always had this weird effect on me. It was like a little crack of sunlight breaking through the storm clouds, a sudden spike of heat in my chest.

"They're going to grill me, you know?" I said, my voice laced with a mixture of anxiety and resentment. "Ask about my grades, my 'future plans,' why I'm not more like Calvin..."

I stole another glance at her, finding her already watching me. Her cheeks were flushed pink, whether from the cold or something else I didn't know. I found myself staring at her lips, remembering the soft pressure of them against mine.

"Thanks for coming with me, by the way. I know it's not exactly a vacation." My voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "I owe you big time."

The rain showed no signs of letting up. I leaned back in my seat, the car feeling suddenly incredibly small as silence settled between us, broken only by the relentless drumming of water on the roof and windows.

I reached over and turned up the radio, a nervous habit, and immediately winced at the slow, bluesy song that filled the car – the kind that always seemed to be playing during pivotal moments in bad movies. Its melancholic melody wrapped around us like a warm blanket.

I caught her eye again, my heart pounding in my chest. "You know," I said, my voice barely audible over the rain and music, "we could make this a little less miserable."