noun

       • a mark to aim at, especially in shooting; an objective or ambition.

Connor doesn't miss the uncomfortable shuffle of Troye's feet as he finally slides his key into the door, a nervous habit he'd picked up on within the first few weeks of knowing the talented musician. He tries to check him over out of the corner of his eye, noting an averted gaze and hands delved deep into thin pockets. He doesn't say anything, but he wants to.

Connor lets out a soft sound of achievement when he feels the key click in and twist, unlocking the used car with the sound of metal scraping metal. The door shimmies open with a little more difficulty than he'd like to admit, flying the rest of the way once he manages to pry it gracelessly from its frame.

He pauses, holding the door open and staring into the cold comforts of the metal box his family got him as a going away gift. There's receipts spattered over the floor-mats, a couple sweaters and loose papers taking up the back seats. It's the definition of a college kid's vehicle, complete with a broken snow scraper under the stained seats.

Turning back to Troye, he can't help but feel something jerk a little uncomfortably inside of him.

"I'll see you tomorrow, I guess," comes a quiet voice, blue eyes directed away from his own as worn converse draw hectic lines in the snow.

Connor frowns, his hand clenching where it's wrapped around the top of his car door, because he doesn't want to see him tomorrow, he wants to see more of him tonight. Because it's meant to be the coldest night they've had all year and he's got the growing suspicion that Troye doesn't go home to a soft bed and warm meal. Because he's got two classes tomorrow and a long project to finish and he isn't entirely sure he can keep putting it off to spend time with this ambivalent boy before him. Because Connor hasn't forgotten about that morning in his kitchen or that phone call with his mom.

He takes a breath, thinks it through, slides his hand off the door.

"Do you want to come over?"