And very aware of him.
We walk just a couple of steps before reaching his car. He opens the passenger door with his free hand and puts me down on the seat, placing my heels on the car floor.
“Wait a second,” he says and closes the door behind me, disappearing in the garden. The scent of his car swallows me once again.
Cardamom, leather, hint of cigarettes.
I think this is my favorite scent. It’s his scent. And it’s addictive.
He’s quickly back by the car and sits next to me, handing me another water, then leans in, reaching across me to fasten my seatbelt.
“Oh, thanks.” I take the water and drink as much as I can.
I think I’m slowly sobering up. Or maybe it’s just because I’m sitting. It’s probably that.
He starts the engine and the soft rumble fills the quiet night. The lights of the driveway spill across his face, carving out every line of his jaw, the cheekbones, the little shadow under his bottom lip. He looks unfair in the yellow glow, like he was manufactured in some lab specifically to destroy my self-control.
He rests one hand on the wheel and the other drapes over the gearshift, fingers tapping once, twice, like he’s thinking. He focuses on the road instead of me, and somehow that makes it worse. The way the light catches in his eyes, the way his lashes flick down and up when he checks the mirrors, the way his hair falls over his forehead.
I’m going to die in this car. My soul will exit through the air vents.
I try to look out of the window, but my eyes slide right back to him. Totally subtle. His veins shift on his forearm when he changes gears. Jesus. Why is that hot? Why is everything here so hot? His hands look like they could rebuild a house and ruin my entire moral compass at the same time.
My seatbelt suddenly feels too tight across my chest. My heart keeps doing that stupid fluttering thing whenever he inhales. How is breathing attractive? This should be illegal. He shouldneed a license to exist in my proximity. He glances at me for a split second, but it’s enough for his eyes to soften again, the exact same way they did in the bathroom before he kissed me like I was all he could think about.
“Still okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod. Too fast.
He hides a tiny smile, the kind that tugs at one corner of his mouth before he forces it away. Why does he do that? Why does he try so hard not to smile? Does he even realize how pretty he looks when he does?
Probably not. Boys never know these things. My investigative brain identified at least two girls at the party orbiting him like sirens, and I could swear he didn’t even notice.
The trees blur past us and the car’s warm interior wraps around me like a blanket.
It’s so peaceful.
His jaw flexes slightly when he turns into my street, his hand tightening on the wheel just for a second. The light from passing streetlamps flashes over his profile, each one catching a different angle.
The car stops and quiet settles between us—heavy but nice, full of everything that happened. He clears his throat gently.
“Can I walk you to the door?” His voice is soft. Careful.
I should say yes. But I don’t want this to end yet.
“Can you stay here a little longer?” It comes out quiet and too honest.
Then something in his face breaks open. Not a full smile, but that tiny, disbelieving one he tries to hide all the time.
“Yeah,” he breathes out, barely audible. “Yeah. Of course.”
He shuts off the motor and shifts, turning in his seat just enough that his knee angles toward my direction and his shoulder brushes the backrest. He looks happy. I also turntoward him, folding my legs beneath me on the seat until I’m facing him completely.
I can feel the last bits of dizziness slowly melting away, like the water and the quiet and him are sobering me faster than anything else. My heartbeat still jumps every time he moves, but my thoughts are clearing. Kind of.
“I’m really sorry for what happened at the restaurant.”
His eyes flicker around the steering wheel, one of his hands gripping it so tight the knuckles turn white. “It won’t happen again,” he adds, voice firm this time.
