He reaches for the gear shift?—
And his hand brushes mine.
I don’t know if I moved or he did. But suddenly his fingers are against my knuckles, warm and rough, and we both freeze.
His scent fractures.
Just for a second. Pine and woodsmoke flooding with something desperate underneath—want and grief and ten years of loneliness bleeding through the cracks. His hand trembles against mine. I hear his breath catch.
I turn my palm up. An invitation.
He jerks away like I burned him.
“Nate—”
“Don’t.” The word is wrecked. Barely a whisper.
He puts the truck in reverse, and his scent locks down again. Ice over fire. Control over chaos.
But I felt it. I know I did. Felt his hand shake, smelled his walls crumble, heard him fighting for control.
He’s not unaffected. He’sdrowningin it.
And that’s the cruelest thing he could have given me—proof that he still wants me, wrapped in a silence that says it doesn’t matter.
The drive back is quiet. He doesn’t look at me. I don’t push.
But when he pulls into Grandma’s driveway and I reach for the door handle, he speaks.
“Cara.”
I stop. Wait.
His hands are locked on the steering wheel. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
“I can’t do this,” he says. “I can’t just... let you back in. Not after everything.”
“I’m not asking you to let me in.” I turn to face him. “I’m asking you to give me a chance to earn it.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move.
I open the door and climb out. The cold air hits me like a slap after the warmth of the cab, after his scent wrapped around me for the last hour.
“Goodnight, Nate.”
I’m halfway up the walk when I hear it.
“Tomorrow.”
I turn. He’s still staring straight ahead, but his window is cracked open. His voice carries in the cold air.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. Rough. Reluctant. “I’ll pick you up at noon. We’ll... try again.”
My heart stutters. “Really?”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
The window rolls up. The truck backs out of the driveway.
