Caught a ride, back in the morning
The screen’s glow washed my skin in pale blue.
Hannah’s reply popped up so fast it felt like she’d been waiting.Make bad choices.
A shaky laugh slipped out before I could stop it. I locked the phone and let it drop into my lap. “Too late,” I murmured.
He shot me a sideways glance but didn’t press. The wipers squeaked rhythm against the windshield, slicing through drizzle. I watched his hands on the wheel—steady, quiet power there, veins shifting like the city’s pulse itself.
Every turn pulled us farther from the noise of the bar, from Nate’s ghost. My reflection stared back in the dark glass, eyes hollowed and alive all at once.
I pressed my forehead to the window’s chill. The road stretched ahead, empty and fine-tuned for regret. Hannah didn’t need to remind me. I already knew what this was.
Chapter 4
Calder
The tires hissed across wet gravel before crunching to a stop. Rain ticked against the hood, soft and steady, as the engine fell quiet. My place looked like it always did at night—half-lived in, half-forgotten. One porch light burned out weeks ago, so only a dim glow from the kitchen window cut through the dark. Paint peeling on the siding, wood porch bowed from too many winters. A house that didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t.
She sat still beside me, eyes tracing the outline of the small structure. Her thumb worried the seam of her jeans. The heater hummed, filling the silence neither of us seemed ready to break.
“It’s not much,” I said. The words came rough. “Came with the divorce.”
Her faint laugh carried less humor than breath. “It’s quiet.”
“Too quiet.” I reached for the keys, metal clinking. “You don’t have to come in.”
She turned her head, face just visible in the dash glow. “I came this far.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I shifted, hand resting on the steering wheel. “You can change your mind. We don’t have to?—”
She unbuckled, motion quick, decisive. The seat belt snapped back. Before I could finish the thought, she leaned across the console, fingers hooked in my shirt. Her eyes met mine—raw, searching.
“Stop asking,” she whispered.
Her mouth caught mine, urgent and warm, the kind of kiss that drags air out of your lungs and leaves something heavier behind. The edge of the gearshift dug into my leg. My hand found the back of her neck, her hair damp from the walk through rain. She tasted faintly of whiskey and something colder—distance, maybe. Grief that hadn’t burned off yet.
The kiss slowed. She pulled away first, breath uneven. Neither of us moved completely back.
“You still want to go inside?” I asked.
She looked past me, through the windshield. My house loomed small, tired, but it was closed off from every set of curious eyes in that bar. That seemed enough.
Her nod was slight. “Yeah.”
I stepped out, the chill biting quick through my coat. Gravel shifted under boots. When I circled to her side, she was already standing, arms wrapped tight. The wind carried that faint scent of pine and oil from the garage. I didn’t reach for her hand. She followed me across the porch, anyway.
Inside, the floorboards creaked under our weight. The house smelled like dust, coffee gone stale, and something faintly metallic from the still-drying hockey gear near the mudroom. A single lamp threw amber light across the narrow living room—couch scarred with age, crooked frames on the wall, a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter.
No music. No sound besides our own breathing.
“Still not too late to back out,” I said quietly, more habit than warning.
She closed the door behind her, leaned against it, and met my eyes. “Would’ve backed out already if I wanted to.”
She studied me from across the room, her shoulders pressed to the door like she wasn’t sure whether to stay or bolt. Light from the lamp caught the edge of her jaw, that same stubborn tilt I’d seen in women who’d already decided they’d regret what came next.
“Why are you talking me out of it?” Her voice wavered, thin but steadying as she spoke. “Are you not… I mean, I can leave.”
