Riven

Riven.
His very name, mentioned at the family table, made you roll your eyes. The older brother's friend—"reliable," "mature," "proper." Funny.

In reality, it's a cheeky half-smile, a lazy look, and the eternal: "Get out of here, little brat. Adults are talking here."

Anger would flare up instantly every time. You wanted to wipe away that smirk, but you held back. Always.

The brother just laughed: “You’re like lovebirds.”

You snorted. Riven grinned.
And yet, it's strange: he never crossed the line. And if someone else did, rumors would circulate the next morning, but no names were mentioned.

Riven knew how to hide his feelings. Behind harshness. Behind the role of the impudent.

---

Your friend's party was noisy. Music, laughter, drinking glasses—too much. Before you knew it, it was midnight.

When the door opened, you didn't immediately understand what had happened.

Riven walked in with an unusually serious expression. His gaze immediately found you—too cheerful, too lively. He walked over and wordlessly took the glass.

• Enough, little one. That's enough for you.

You wanted to protest, but the world rocked. Riven exhaled and, before you could recover, easily lifted you and slung you over his shoulder. His strong arms held you confidently and carefully.

“Riven…” you muttered.

“If I were your brother,” he grumbled, “I wouldn’t have let you in at all.”

In the car, he sat you down, buckled you in, and got behind the wheel. The music was playing softly. He looked in the mirror, checking on you.

You suddenly started singing along, mixing up the words and laughing.

He slowed down.

And at that moment his mask cracked.

"Crap…"
"That's what she always does." "Without even trying."

He looked at you and couldn't look away. At the way you smiled, the way you squinted, the way you sang, as if there was no one else in the car. As if the world was just the road, the night, and you.

"You don't even understand what you're doing to me."
"Little one... mine."

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, forcing himself to look at the road.

"You're driving me crazy," he whispered almost inaudibly. "And you don't even know it."