“4828 Northeast Going St.”
He repeats it under his breath; the sound of it in his voice is doing something I don’t want to name. The drive is comfortable and unbearable all at once. Every few blocks, I catch him glancing at me, like he’s trying to memorize something he doesn’t want to forget.
I focus on the streetlights flicking across the windshield, each one washing his profile in gold before letting him slip back into shadow. He looks calm and collected, as if none of this touches him. And maybe that’s what does it. The realization that I’m sitting here coming undone while he looks perfectly fine. A shiver crawls up my spine before I can stop it. Not from the cold, but from him. From the quiet that feels too intimate, from the weight of every unspoken thing I don’t dare say.
“You cold?” he asks just as I reach for the dial.
Our hands brush again, another small contact that feels anything but. He clears his throat, eyes on the road.
“Guess we’re both cold.”
“Must be.”
But we both know that isn’t it.
The GPS chimes for the last turn, and he slows as we pull up the narrow drive. The porch light glows soft and golden against the blue-gray siding, the kind that makes the whole street look like a postcard. The same wicker swing sits on the front porch, a littlefaded, and the flowerbeds spill over with wild hydrangeas that have taken over since the last time I trimmed them.
“Here we are.”
“This is where you grew up?” He glances around, taking it in.
“Yeah.”
“It’s nice,” he says, and somehow makes it sound like he means it. “Feels like a place people come back to.”
“You’d be the first to say that.”
“Then make sure that I’m quoted correctly.”
My chest tightens at the teasing way he says it, but with something underneath that sounds almost careful. It is as if he’s paying attention and wants to ensure he gets this right. Most people don’t. They see the small house, the old porch swing, the flowerbeds that never quite stay trimmed, and they make assumptions. But he looks at it as if he’s seeing me in it. Like this place tells him something he’s been quietly trying to figure out since the elevator. It’s disarming and exactly the kind of thing that makes me forget this is supposed to be pretend.
I look away before he can see too much. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
He grins wider, studying the house again with one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel.
“Just trying to get the details right,” he says, eyes still tracing the porch like he’s memorizing it. “You know… for research.”
“Research,” I repeat, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. “Sure.”
He finally looks at me, and something about it pins me in place. His tone is playful, but his gaze isn’t. “I can’t play the part if I don’t understand the story.”
I want to tell him it’s just a house. There’s nothing here to understand, but my throat feels too tight.
“Right,” I manage, the word catching. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your performance.”
“Don’t read too much into it, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Just trying to know what I’m getting myself into.”
It’s meant as a tease, but it doesn’t sound like one. I turn before he can see my face, feeling his unflinching eyes burning through every layer I thought I could hide behind.
The porch light flickers once, a soft buzz in the quiet, but I can’t make my feet move. Not while I can still feel him watching me.
Because for the first time all night, I’m terrified that this isn’t pretend anymore.
And worse, I’m not sure I want it to be.
Chapter Eight
Kyle
