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They still have their own lives, the roles they have to play, but Sansa clings to the moments that belong to them alone - “just us girls,” Margaery says with a sweet twist of her lips. Sansa’s favorite place in the world is the passenger seat of Margaery’s car, touching up her make-up in the visor mirror and humming along to the radio. Being next to her is like having the sun shining on her face all the time.
Sometimes it’s nothing more than a ride to and from school, a quick brush of fingers and a kiss on the cheek before returning to reality. Sometimes Loras is in the backseat, swapping secrets with his sister as if nobody is listening (Sansa can barely look Renly Baratheon in the eye anymore without blushing). But sometimes there’s a stone thrown against Sansa’s window, or a note passed under her desk in the middle of a history lecture, and those times it’s just them and the highway and the afternoon sun for as long as they want.
Margaery likes to go to beaches, even on the coldest spring days. Sansa points her up and down the Massachusetts coast, and they spend their afternoons with gravelly sand between their toes, dancing away from the icy water and leaning into each other as they walk. It’s obvious how much Margaery misses California - she talks about taking Sansa there someday, the stores and restaurants and sunsets she wants to show her. Sansa tries to warm to her in response. Even though she’s pale and cold, even though she was born with winter in her veins, she plays the moon and reflects Margaery’s light back to her by night.
They touch all the time - often posing as affectionate friends, Margaery’s arm around Sansa’s shoulders, Sansa braiding Margaery’s hair to pass the time - but it’s in the car that they don’t have to pose. Sansa learns what lipstick marks feel like on her neck, how to fold her limbs so they both fit on the bench seat in the back, the sounds she makes when she knows the radio will drown her out. Sometimes she laughs because she can’t believe she almost missed out, because only months ago she had been mistaking domination for passion in Joffrey’s kisses and shooting Margaery jealous glares across crowded halls. Things are simpler, now, softer and subtler and fiercer, a language between them that someone like Joffrey could never hope to understand. Margaery touches Sansa like she cares about what’s under her skin, and Sansa tangles her fingers in long brown curls and returns every gasp and sigh she’s given.
Driving home in the dark, eyeliner smudged and ice cream dripping down their fingers, Sansa pretends that her life is nothing but this. She doesn’t have to think about the homework she’s avoiding, the texts left unread on her cell phone, the haze of the future looming before her as the days tick past. She pretends that the world drops away, leaving only the headlights on the pavement and her own personal summer sun at the wheel.