He doesn’t start the engine.
He just turns to me.
Slowly.
Like he’s afraid he might snap the steering wheel in half if he moves too quickly.
“What the hell was that?” he says quietly.
Quiet is worse.
Quiet is a threat wrapped in velvet.
I grin sloppily. “I was having fun.”
“That wasn’t fun.” His voice tightens. “That was reckless.”
“Same thing.”
He exhales through his nose, gripping the wheel hard enough that the tendons in his forearm stand out like ropes. Lights from passing cars paint his face in flashes—cold blue, burning red, bright white—each one making him look more furious.
“Scarlett, you were dancing on a fucking table.”
“Mhm.” I nod dramatically. “I was very high up. Point of pride, actually.”
“Point of—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. “Do you even hear yourself?”
I tilt my head back against the headrest, staring at him through heavy eyelashes, my smile lazy and sharp at the edges.
“Noah, you drag me to these fancy, pretty clubs and expect me to sit still like a decorative lamp. I got bored.”
“You were drunk.”
“Oooh, was I?” I tap my fingers against my thigh. “Shocking.”
He slams his palm against the steering wheel—not hard enough to make me jump, but hard enough to make a statement. The horn blares for half a second, earning a glare from a passerby.
“You embarrassed yourself,” he snaps.
I laugh. Actually laugh.
The sound fills the car—warm, messy, uncontained.
“Noah,” I say slowly, “sweetheart… I’ve been embarrassing myself since the day I met you. You just didn’t notice until other people looked.”
His eyes narrow.
“Who’s getting to you?”
I blink.
And his voice sharpens like a blade.
“Don’t fucking lie. Something changed. Overnight. One minute you’re shaking in the bathroom, the next you’re dancing on tables. You’re hiding something.”
I scoff, leaning toward him with exaggerated seriousness. “Yes. I’m hiding the secret desire to become a Vegas showgirl. Busted.”
“This isn’t funny.”
