NOT YOUR UBER

Milk parks in front of Love’s mansion, but this time, she doesn’t tell her to get out. She just sits there, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel.

Love, still in her hoodie, doesn’t make a move either. Instead, she leans her head back against the seat, eyes closed.

Milk:"You’re not moving."

Love: (murmuring) "Mm. Too comfortable."

Milk scoffs. Rich people.

But she doesn’t tell her to leave.

A beat of silence stretches between them.

Then—

Love:"I don’t think I’ve ever been in a car this long without a destination."

Milk tilts her head, glancing at her.

Milk:"That supposed to mean something?"

Love hums.

Love:"I don’t know. Maybe I just like being here."

Milk’s grip tightens slightly on the wheel. She doesn’t know why that makes her heart do a weird little thing—but she ignores it.

Milk:"You say that now, but I could take a sharp turn and throw you out."

Love snorts, eyes still closed.

Love:"You won’t."

Milk raises a brow.

Milk:"Oh? What makes you so sure?"

Love finally turns her head, opening her eyes just enough to meet Milk’s gaze. There’s something different in them tonight. Less guarded.

And for once, she doesn’t say anything cocky.

Just—

Love: (softly) "Because you like having me around."

Milk feels her throat go dry.

She should argue. She should roll her eyes, scoff, and say "In your dreams, princess."

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she looks away first.

Milk: (grumbling) "Shut up and go inside."

Love smirks, stretching lazily.

Love:"See? You never deny it."

She reaches for the door handle but pauses. Instead of leaving, she leans in slightly.

Milk stiffens.

Love isn’t too close—but just close enough for the air between them to shift.

Love: (playful, but quieter) "Goodnight, Milk."

Milk doesn’t look at her.

Milk: (muttering) "Whatever."

But as Love steps out and disappears into her mansion, Milk finds herself sitting in the car a little longer than necessary.

Her fingers tap against the wheel.

Her chest feels weirdly tight.

And for the first time, she wonders if maybe, just maybe, she’s in trouble.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Milk tells herself she’s not waiting for Love.
She’s just… parked. Drinking coffee.
Like she always does.
At this exact time.
Outside this exact mansion.

Totally normal behavior.

Then, like clockwork, Love steps out of the house—this time, without the usual dramatics. No heels, no designer bag, just the same oversized hoodie from last night.

Milk raises a brow.

Milk:"You’re getting lazy."

Love: (mock-offended) "Excuse you, this is called effortless chic."

She slides into the passenger seat without an invitation. As if this is just a thing they do now.

Milk doesn’t stop her.

She starts the car without asking where they’re going, and Love doesn’t offer a destination.

Neither of them question it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Milk parks on a hilltop, the city stretching out below them in a sea of golden lights.

Love doesn’t comment—just props her feet on the dashboard and leans back with a sigh.

Love:"You know, this is the part where you say something deep and meaningful."

Milk snorts.

Milk:"Oh, sorry. Let me pull out my book of inspirational quotes."

Love laughs—soft, genuine. It catches Milk off guard.

She turns her head slightly, watching Love out of the corner of her eye.

For once, she’s not performing. Not being the rich brat, the spoiled princess, the walking headache.

She’s just… Love.

Milk quickly looks away, gripping her coffee cup a little too tightly.

Milk:"Why do I feel like you don’t do this often?"

Love:"Do what?"

Milk:"Sit still. Shut up. Just… exist."

Love hums, watching the city lights flicker below.

Love: (quietly) "Maybe I don’t know how."

Milk frowns. She wasn’t expecting an actual answer.

She wasn’t expecting to care about the answer.

She exhales, leaning back against her seat.

Milk: (muttering) "Sounds exhausting."

Love: (soft laugh) "You have no idea."

They sit in silence after that—not awkward, not tense. Just comfortable.

And then—

Love:"Hey, Milk?"

Milk turns her head—

And that’s when she realizes how close Love suddenly is.

She wasn’t close a second ago. She definitely wasn’t looking at her like this a second ago.

Milk swallows.

Milk:"What?"

Love’s gaze flickers to her lips. Just for a second.

But Milk sees it.

And now? She can’t unsee it.

Love smirks, tilting her head.

Love: (softly) "Nothing."

Milk forces herself to breathe. Forces herself to look back at the road, like that didn’t just happen.

Milk: (muttering) "Brat."

Love just grins, sinking back into her seat, watching her with quiet amusement.

She doesn’t push.

But she doesn’t need to.

Because Milk knows—
That was the first real move.

And whether she likes it or not—
She’s already playing.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Milk swears she’s not thinking about last night.
She’s definitely not replaying the way Love looked at her.
And she’s absolutely not feeling weird about it.

Nope. Not at all.

Which is why, when Love slides into her passenger seat for the third night in a row, Milk doesn’t even react.

Not when she steals the aux cord.
Not when she cranks the volume up.
Not when she props her feet up on the dashboard again.

Totally normal. Totally fine.

Except—

Milk:"Do you ever ask permission before taking my things?"

Love:"You ever stop me?"

Milk clenches her jaw. Love smirks.

Yeah. That’s what she thought.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Then, they end up at some random 24-hour diner—Milk’s usual spot. It’s small, dimly lit, half-empty. The kind of place that serves burnt coffee and greasy fries, but for some reason, it feels more real than anywhere Love’s ever been.

She’s out of place here. Too polished, too effortlessly pretty in her designer hoodie and expensive perfume. But she doesn’t complain.

She just steals one of Milk’s fries and pops it into her mouth.

Milk watches her, unamused.

Milk:"I literally ordered you your own plate."

Love: (shrugging) "Tastes better when it’s yours."

Milk rolls her eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it.

And then—

Love:"So, tell me something real."

Milk pauses, mid-sip of her coffee.

Milk:"What?"

Love:"Something real. About you. No sarcasm, no smartass comments. Just… real."

Milk blinks. She wasn’t expecting that.

She looks down at her coffee, fingers tapping against the ceramic mug.

Something real?

She exhales, then—

Milk:"I hate the rain."

Love tilts her head, intrigued.

Love:"Why?"

Milk stares at the swirling black liquid in her cup.

Milk:"Because it reminds me of things I don’t want to remember."

Love doesn’t ask what those things are. She just studies her, quiet.

Then, instead of responding with another question, she says—

Love:"I love the rain."

Milk glances up.

Milk:"Figures."

Love smirks, but it’s softer this time.

And then—without warning—she reaches across the table and flicks a crumb off Milk’s sleeve.

Milk freezes.

It’s such a small gesture. Barely anything.

But for some reason, it makes Milk’s pulse skip.

Love notices.

Of course, she does.

Her smirk deepens ever so slightly, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Milk exhales sharply, tearing her gaze away.

Milk: (muttering) "I hate you."

Love: (grinning) "No, you don’t."

And the worst part?

She’s right.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Milk grips the steering wheel a little too tightly. Love sits beside her, humming some tune under her breath, looking way too satisfied with herself.

Milk refuses to acknowledge it.

The drive is quiet—too quiet. The city lights blur past them, neon reflections flickering against the windshield. The only sound is the soft purr of the engine and Love’s occasional sigh as she scrolls through her phone.

It’s peaceful. Almost… comfortable.

And that is what bothers Milk the most.

Because when did this become normal? When did Love’s presence stop being a nuisance and start feeling—

She shuts that thought down real quick.

Milk is not catching feelings for a spoiled rich girl.

Nope. Not happening.

But then—

Love:"Hey."

Milk doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t trust herself to.

Milk:"What."

Love hesitates. Just for a second.

Love:"Why do you keep driving me around?"

Milk frowns, keeping her eyes on the road.

Milk:"Because you keep getting in my car."

Love:"You could kick me out."

Milk exhales through her nose.

Milk:"I try to. You never leave."

Love smirks.

Love:"So, you don’t really want me to."

Milk groans.

Milk:"God, you’re annoying."

Love just laughs, completely unbothered.

But then, she shifts in her seat. Her voice turns softer—less teasing.

Love:"I mean it, though."

Milk finally glances at her.

Love is looking out the window, fingers tracing absent shapes against the glass. The neon lights cast soft colors across her face—blue, pink, violet.

She looks… tired.

Not physically. But in a way that Milk recognizes all too well.

Milk swallows.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just focuses on the road. But after a long pause—

Milk:"Maybe… I don’t hate the company."

It’s barely above a mumble.

But Love hears it.

And when Milk risks another glance at her, she catches the small, knowing smile tugging at Love’s lips.

Like she knew that all along.

Milk exhales sharply, shaking her head.

Milk:"I take it back. I do hate you."

Love chuckles, leaning back in her seat, fully satisfied.

Love:"Sure you do."

And just like that—Milk knows she’s screwed.