“You’ve been humming along to every song,” he says, glancing at me, his lips twitching like he’s holding back something. “How often do you listen to the radio?”
Heat creeps up my neck, but I grin anyway. “A lot. I like music. It calms me down.”
His eyes flick back to the road. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I nod, tucking a strand of wet hair behind my ear. “It’s like… no matter how messy the world is, music makes it make sense.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, just presses his mouth into a flat line, like he’s chewing on the thought. Finally, he exhales. “For me, it’s hockey.”
And that’s it. Short, clipped. But I can hear the weight under it. Hockey isn’t just a game for him, it’s important to him.
The silence settles back in, though it doesn’t feel so heavy now.
When we finally pull off the highway, I notice the neon glow first. A flickering sign with blocky letters. Sammie’s. The parking lot is half full, rain dripping off the awning over the door.
He eases into a space, shuts the engine off.
I blink, confused. “Where are we?”
“Sammie’s,” he says like it’s obvious. He nods at the glowing sign. “You okay with falafels?”
“Falafels?” I repeat, thrown.
“They’re the best I’ve ever had,” he explains, voice even, though there’s a faint tug of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “I get them here sometimes. I’m hungry. You probably are too. And since it’s barely raining now—but who knows when it’ll start again—might as well eat.”
I can’t help it. I smile. “Oh. Sure.”
We climb out of the car, the air thick with the smell of wet asphalt. My skin prickles in the chill, damp clothes clinging to me again. He shuts his door and glances at me, eyes sharp.
“Do you have a jacket?” he asks.
I glance down at my chest. The tank top. The red bra visible underneath. My face heats instantly. “I… left it in my car.”
He walks to the back of his Chevy, pops the trunk, and pulls out a jacket.Hisjacket. Huge, black, soft leather worn at the edges.
He drapes it over my shoulders without a word. The weight swallows me whole. It smells like leather and something else, something warm and sharp I want to drown in.
“Thank you,” I murmur, hugging it closer.
“No problem,” he says simply, already walking toward the door.
I follow, my sneakers splashing through shallow puddles.
Inside, Sammie’s hums with life. The smell of frying oil and spices hits me immediately, warm and rich. People call out to Miles like they know him—like everyone knows him. Nods, waves, little grins. He acknowledges them all with a tilt of his chin, a handshake here, a quiet word there.
It’s strange, watching him like this. He’s not the silent, brooding boy behind the wheel anymore. He’s comfortable, familiar, part of this world.
He guides us to a booth tucked away in the back.
“Give me your phone,” he says, holding out his hand.
I blink. “Why?”
“I’ll have someone charge it.”
I hand it over, hesitant. He takes it without question, sliding it into his back pocket. “You okay with spicy food?”
I nod quickly. “Yeah.”
