When Miles comes back, jogging a little, his eyes scan my face. “You okay?”
I force a smile, nodding quickly. “Yeah.”
He studies me for a beat longer, like he doesn’t believe me, but doesn’t push.
“Let’s get you home,” he says.
And somehow, I wish we weren’t leaving.
The rest of the drive is so quiet that I can hear the rain ticking against the windshield like an impatient metronome. The only other sound is the low hum of the engine beneath us, steady and strong, but even that feels muted compared to the silence stretching between us. I sneak a glance at him every so often, watching the way his hands tighten around the wheel, the way his jaw flexes like he’s grinding down words he doesn’t say. It should feel awkward, unbearable even, but instead there’s a strange kind of charge in the air like something heavy that hasn’t been released yet.
When the car finally pulls up outside my apartment building, my chest is almost sore from holding everything in. He slows to a stop by the curb, shifting into park. My throat feels scratchy, but I force a smile as I unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Thank you,” I tell him softly, curling my fingers around the strap of my bag. “For the drive. For… all of it.”
His gray eyes flick toward me. “What’s bothering you?”
The question is so sudden, so direct, it stuns me. He doesn’t ask casually either. He asks like he knows. Like he saw through every flimsy smile I plastered on tonight.
I swallow, looking down at my hands. “Family stuff,” I say quickly. It’s the safest truth. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
He studies me for a beat too long but doesn’t push. He just nods once.
“Thanks again,” I add, opening the door. The drizzle is still falling, cool against my cheeks as I step out of the Impala. I sling my bag over my shoulder, trying to steady my breathing, trying to remind myself that this night is already too much, too strange, too intense.
I’ve only taken a few steps when his voice cuts through the rain.
“Wait.”
The word freezes me in place. My heart jerks violently against my ribs as I turn back. He’s out of the car, the door clicking shut behind him. He’s standing close now, close enough that I have to tilt my chin up just to meet his eyes. The rain glints against his hair, a few drops trailing down the scar along his jaw. He looks unreal like this. He’s so attractive it hurts.
“Yeah?” My voice is unsteady, trembling against the drizzle.
He doesn’t answer at first. He just reaches out, slow but sure, his fingers brushing the knot of my messy bun. Then he tugs, gentle but deliberate, pulling the elastic loose until my hair falls down around my shoulders in damp waves. My breath stutters.
“It looks better like that,” he murmurs, his hand grazing my cheek.
My heart is a full drumline now, no rhythm, no control. That’s it?
“Thanks,” I whisper. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, nerves crackling through me, and his eyes follow the movement like he’s memorizing it.
He’s so close I can smell him—leather, soap, something darker that feels dangerously addictive.
“You should have the number for the garage,” he says, his voice low, almost gruff. “So you can contact them about your car.”
“Oh.” I blink, trying to ground myself. “Right. Yeah.”
I shrug off his jacket, ready to hand it back, but he shakes his head. “Stop.”
“What?”
“How about you give me your number,” he says, like it’s nothing, like it’s casual, even though my entire body feels like it’s combusting. “We’ll arrange for when you can give me the jacket back.”
“Okay,” I breathe.
He pulls out his phone, places it in my hand. My fingers shake as I type my number in, the screen slick under my thumb. When I hand it back, he dials immediately, and my own phone buzzes in my pocket.
Then, before I can even register, his hand curls into the collar of his jacket that’s still draped on my shoulders. He tugs me closer, closing that small but impossible distance. He slides his phone back into his pocket with his free hand like this is the most natural thing in the world.
