I flinch slightly, pressing my knees together.
I scramble for something else to say, something to ground me. “So… how do I get my car back? Once it’s fixed, I mean.”
“The garage will call you,” he says, his gaze focused forward. “Or you can pay to have it delivered to school.”
“Oh. Okay.” I nod, chewing the inside of my cheek. My stomach feels like it’s full of bees.
And then the worst possible thing happens.
A sound rips out, loud enough to echo in the small space.
My stomach. Growling.
I freeze, mortified, heat flooding my face.
Miles glances at me. Down, then up again. His gaze lingers too long on my thighs before finally meeting my eyes.
“You’re hungry?” he asks, voice deep and steady.
“Kind of,” I admit, rushing the words out. “I was so busy with classes I didn’t really eat lunch. Well, I had a soda, but that doesn’t really count. I’ll definitely grab a pizza when I get home though.”
I want to sink into the floor. I’m rambling. I can hear myself rambling and I can’t stop.
But then he smiles.
It’s small, almost like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. But it’s there.
And I’m floored.
My chest feels like it’s been carved open, light spilling through. I have no idea what I said that was funny or worthy of that expression, but I want to see it again. I want to know what makes him do that.
“With this rain,” he says, eyes narrowing toward the windshield, “it’ll be harder to get anything delivered.”
He rolls his window down an inch. Rain sneaks in, spraying against his arm. He leans closer, peers out. “This rain will not fucking let up.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, reaching up to twist my hair into a bun. My fingers work quickly, tying the strands back just so it’ll start drying instead of clinging to my neck.
“Can I use your charger?” I ask, fishing my dead phone from my pocket. “Just for a little bit. My phone’s dead.”
“No.” The word is blunt, final.
I blink. “Oh. Sorry.”
“If you plug it in, it’ll drain the car battery.”
“Oh. Okay.” I tuck the phone back into my pocket, biting the inside of my lip.
“You have a nice car,” I say, because silence feels like it might crush me.
He doesn’t look at me right away, but I see something shift in him. “It’s a 1969 Chevrolet Impala.”
And just like that, his voice changes. He talks differently, his whole face almost lighting as he starts explaining—about the engine, the body, the history, why he keeps it running the way he does.
I watch him, amazed. It’s like he transforms when he talks about it, suddenly alive in a way that makes him seem younger, more open.
But then, as if he realizes he’s revealed too much, he scratches his jaw, embarrassment flickering across his face. “Your car’s good too,” he adds quickly. “If you take care of it.”
“I don’t know much about cars,” I confess. My throat tightens before I can stop it. “After I lost my dream car, I just… didn’t care.”
