She tilted her chin up, that stubborn spark still alive even beneath the haze. “Where are we going, Professor Stone?” she asked, voice soft but baiting. “You planning to give me a lecture on bar etiquette now?”
I didn’t bother answering. I just shifted my hand to her waist, firmer this time, guiding her toward the exit. She didn’t resist, not really. Her body followed mine, her weight leaning just enough that I could feel every movement through her dress. She sighed under her breath, muttering something about “towering tyrants” and “birthday bastards,” and though the sound nearly made me smirk, I kept my face still.
Outside, the air hit us hard, cold and biting, scraping the heat from my skin and replacing it with something sharper. She folded her arms around herself, small and shivering, and before she could protest, I shrugged off my coat and laid it across her shoulders.
“I don’t need—”
“Take the damn coat, Edwina.”
The words came out rough, closer to a command than kindness, and when she looked up at me, her breath trembled in the space between us. She didn’t move for a heartbeat, her face tipped up toward mine, the edge of her mouth parted as if she wanted to argue but forgot how. I could feel the heat of her breath against my jaw, could see the way her lips glistened in the streetlight, and for one reckless second, I almost leaned in, almost closed the distance, almost tasted what I’d been starving for since the moment I saw her in that dress.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
She took the coat in silence, fingers brushing mine for the briefest second before she slipped her arms inside. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I led her to the car, opened the passenger door, and helped her in. She didn’t look at me when I closed it, but her reflection in the window was enough, flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, the ghost of a smirk she probably didn’t even mean.
When I slid into the driver’s seat, my hands were already clenched too tightly around the wheel. I didn’t turn the key right away. The cabin was quiet, filled only with the soft sound of herbreathing and the faint thump of the bass from the club fading behind us. I told myself I should have left her there, called someone, done the decent thing. But I couldn’t. Not with the memory of her body still pressed against mine, not with those eyes looking at me like they didn’t know how to ask for help but hated that they needed it.
She leaned her head against the window as I finally started the car, her hair falling forward, the soft strands catching the light as her eyes fluttered half-shut. She wasn’t asleep. I could tell by the way her fingers moved in her lap, restless, by the way her breath caught every few seconds, as though she was trying to keep it even. The silence in the car was thick, not peaceful, not calm, just heavy enough to make every mile feel longer than it was.
The road ahead stretched dark and empty, headlights gliding over the wet asphalt. I let my focus fix on that, on the rhythm of the white lines slipping under the hood, anything to stop me from looking at her again.
“Where do you live?” I asked finally.
She didn’t answer right away, of course she didn’t. Her jaw was locked tight, her lips pressed together, her gaze pinned to the blur of the city passing outside her window. I waited, knuckles white against the steering wheel, telling myself it was about responsibility, about safety, not about the way her silence made me want to reach across the space between us and drag her attention back to me.
But every second she stayed quiet, every breath that passed without her looking at me, made that lie harder to believe.
“Edwina,” I said again, quieter this time, my voice scraping lower than it should have.
“I’m not drunk.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The silence that followed felt drawn out, stretched thin across the small space of the car, filled only by the sound of herbreathing and the low hum of the engine. Then, after a beat too long, she muttered, “You don’t need to take me home. I could’ve walked.”
“In those heels? In that dress?” I shot her a look, one quick, sharp glance that made her shift her gaze toward the window again. “You would’ve made it two blocks before collapsing or getting followed.”
She turned her head just enough for me to catch the fire still burning behind her exhaustion. “I’m not helpless,” she said, her tone tight, defensive, proud.
“I didn’t say you were,” I replied, the grip on the steering wheel biting into my palms. “I just don’t want to find out what happens if I leave you like this.”
Another pause. She pressed her lips together, shoulders sinking slightly as the fight started to bleed out of her. Then, softer, “West Nineteenth. Corner of Merrow Avenue.”
I nodded, said nothing, and let the city swallow the rest of the drive. The only sound between us was the hum of the tires against the wet asphalt and the quiet rasp of her breath. My coat still hung loose around her shoulders, the collar brushing her jaw, her legs folded beneath her as though she were trying to shrink into herself, a futile attempt at distance in a car already crowded with everything left unsaid.
After a long stretch of silence, her voice finally drifted through it, unsteady, words brushing together at the edges. “Why d’you care?” she mumbled. “Who even are you to me, huh?”
I tightened my grip on the wheel, eyes fixed on the dark stretch ahead. “What did I tell you before?” I said at last, voice low, the control in it fraying just slightly. “Dress for the cold.”
She blinked, slow, unfocused, her head tilting against the seat. “That’s… that’s not an answer, Professor.”
I let out a quiet exhale, something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I don’t want my assistant and keynote speaker catching acold before the conference,” I said, the words roughened by something between sarcasm and worry.
She gave a tired little smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Always so damn formal,” she murmured, the syllables slurring together. “You’re terrible at lying.”
Her breath hitched, and I felt it more than I heard it.
When I finally pulled up to the curb outside her building, I cut the engine, but neither of us moved. She reached for the handle, her fingers fumbling once before pausing midair.
