I don’t, not really. The tires spin, the back end whipping around in a full circle before the traction finally catches. We slide to a stop facing the wrong direction. For a second, neither of us moves. Her hand grips the handle, knuckles white, and her breath comes out in heavy pants.
“Well,” she says finally, voice shaky but trying for calm. “Guess you meant to do that?”
I huff out a laugh. “Yeah,” I say, catching my breath. “Just testing the traction.”
She shoots me a glare. “More like testing your luck.”
I smirk, but my grip on the wheel stays tight. “Relax, Tess. I’ve got us.”
She exhales, quiet but sharp. “You better.”
I ease back onto the road, the tires crunching over the snow as we straighten out. The road ahead is empty, the world swallowed in white. For the next few miles, neither of us talks. Her hand stays resting near the console, close enough that if I moved mine an inch, I could feel her warmth. I don’t. But I think about it.
Her phone screen throws a cold blue glow across her face. “We’re not far from Briar Creek,” she murmurs, shifting in herseat. The scarf around her neck slips, exposing a strip of skin that looks too pale against the light. My gaze catches on it before I jerk my eyes back to the road, the knot in my chest tightening.
A beat later, she scrolls, taps, and suddenly Mariah Carey blasts through the speakers—bright, cheerful, and completely wrong for the storm outside.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” My hand shoots out, killing the radio, and forces us back into silence heavier than the snow piling up outside.
Her gasp slices through the silence. “You did not just turn off Christmas music. Who even hates—” She stops midsentence when my jaw flexes, my tone sharper than I mean when I say her name.
I don’t risk a glance at her. Can’t, not with the road nothing but a whirl of white flakes beyond my headlights. Still, I catch her shift in her seat out of the corner of my eye. She leans back, quiet now, twisting the seat belt strap between her fingers like she needs something to hold on to.
The car hums, the tires fighting through the packed snow and slick ice. Every so often, the back end fishtails, skidding just enough to remind me I don’t have as much control as I’d like. My forearms burn from the death grip I have on the wheel, muscles tight enough to cramp, but I don’t let go.
The quiet stretches between us. The kind that makes every sound louder—the engine’s low growl, wipers clawing at the glass, the storm hissing as it pelts the hood.
I should be grateful she’s not filling the space with chatter, but the quiet sits wrong. Too heavy. Too full of things neither of us will say.
Through the storm, a faint glow finally cuts through the white. Looks like a gas station, but it’s the first thing we’ve seen in miles.
“There!” she blurts, her voice cracking with relief as she points.
“I see it.” My answer comes flat, but the relief hits me too. The roads are getting worse by the minute, snow piling faster than the plows can touch it. We need a break, somewhere to wait it out. I guide the car toward the lot, tires crunching over packed snow.
I cut the engine. The heater clicks off, and the wind takes over, rattling the car. Neither of us moves at first. The quiet is thicker than the storm.
I finally let out a breath, peeling my hands off the wheel. “I’ll grab us something to eat. Couple of drinks. Maybe you should see if there’s somewhere close to crash for the night.” My voice comes out low, softer than I mean for it to.
Her shoulders ease, like she’s been wound tight since we pulled out of campus. “If they have pizza by the slice, I’ll take two.” There’s teasing in her tone, like she’s testing how far this truce will stretch.
I shoot her a look. “Really?”
“I’d never joke about pizza.”
My lip curls before I can stop it. “Gas station pizza doesn’t sound appetizing.”
“Gas station pizza is where it’s at, Clay.” A grin tugs at her mouth. “Don’t tell me that playing in the NHL ruined you into thinking you’re too good for it.”
I mutter under my breath and shove the door open. Cold air hits me, nearly taking my breath away. Snow crunches under my dress shoes, slick and useless in this weather.
Inside, the air hangs heavy with burnt coffee and fryer grease. The fluorescent lights are harsh after miles of whiteout conditions. I don’t waste time browsing. I grab two bottled waters, a couple of hot sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a bottle ofwhiskey from behind the counter. No pizza. Not that I expected otherwise.
By the time I push back outside, the storm still hasn’t let up. Snow clings to my coat and hair like it doesn’t want to let go. She’s waiting in the passenger seat, the glow from her phone softening her face, making her look younger for a second.
Sliding in, I hold out the food. “Hate to break it to you, but no pizza. Guess you’ll have to settle for chips and a sandwich.”
Her smile is smaller this time, not that wide, blinding grin she usually throws at me. “Thank you. Honestly, anything’s fine at this point.”
