Coop.
He was leaning against the passenger door like he’d been waiting awhile, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold himself smaller. The second he saw me, he straightened, that too-bright smile snapping into place like he’d practiced it in the mirror.
It didn’t touch his eyes. Not even close.
“Hey,” he said, soft. The kind of soft that made it impossible to pretend he wasn’t nervous. “Uh… any chance I could hitch a ride?”
My stomach pulled tight. The first time we’d been alone since his confession—his mistakes, his choices, the avalanche of information I’d been trying not to drown in ever since. Everything between us felt brittle, sharp-edged, impossible to navigate without getting cut.
But the uncertainty in his gray-green eyes… it hit me right in the chest. He looked like he was bracing for me to say no. Like he’d already convinced himself I should.
And maybe I should’ve. Maybe ignoring him would’ve been the easier choice.
But I couldn’t. Not with him standing there looking like that.
“Yeah,” I said, before my brain could come up with reasons to hesitate. “It’s fine. Get in.”
Relief flashed across his face so quickly it almost hurt to see. He nodded, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“When we get to Mathieu’s, I’ll hop in the back,” he said. “Give you space. I don’t want to make it weird.”
“We’re not going to Mathieu’s.”
That made him pause. Really pause. For a second, I could almost see him reaching for the familiar smirk, the teasing comment—but he didn’t. He just looked at me, really looked, all defenses lowered.
“Do you need to talk about it?” he asked.
Notdo you want to. Notare you ready. Need. Like he could feel the pressure building under my ribs even when I couldn’t explain it.
I stared at my keys, the metal warm from my palm. “I don’t know,” I whispered. “It’s all just… messy. Like everything in my life tied itself into one giant knot and I can’t find the ends to pull apart.”
Coop nodded once, slow, like that made perfect sense to him. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then we’ll just drive.”
No judgment. No pushing. Just quiet acceptance.
For reasons I couldn’t name, that almost undid me.
I slipped into the driver’s seat, and he climbed into the passenger side. The air inside the car was warm from the sun, but not stifling—Texas autumn doing its one job. When I turned the key, the engine rumbled to life, filling the silence between us.
When I reached to adjust the a/c, he clearly had the same idea. His hand bumped mine—barely—and he pulled away like he’d touched a flame.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
“So,” he said, voice low, careful. “Anywhere you want to go?”
“Yeah,” I said, staring through the windshield at the brown-not-dead trees edging the lot. “School.”
He almost smiled at the deadpan comment and so did I, but damn. This awkwardness between us—feltwrong. I didn’t know how to tackle it though.
Because I didn’t have the words yet. Not for what he’d told me. Not for the weird ache in my chest. Not for the way being near him still mattered even when it shouldn’t.
Everything was tangled. Complicated. A knot I didn’t know how to cut.
But driving—with him sitting there trying so hard not to break anything further—felt like the closest thing to trying.
Coop didn’t push. He didn’t even look at me, not directly. Just sat there with his hands folded in his lap, thumbs rubbing together like he was trying to convince them not to shake. The road hummed under the tires, warm air drifting through the cracked window. It should’ve felt peaceful.
It didn’t.
