For a moment, neither of us moves, just breathing, pressed together in the tight space. My legs are still wrapped around him, trembling slightly, and his weight pins me to the seat, heavy but grounding. The air smells like sex and desperation, the windows completely opaque with condensation, sealing us away from the world outside.
“Fuck,” he mutters finally, lifting his head just enough to look at me, eyes still dark but softer now, sated. “You good?”
“Better than good,” I rasp, a tired smirk tugging at my lips. “But we’re a damn mess.”
He laughs, short and rough, glancing down at where we’re still joined then at the state of the backseat. “Worth it.”
I can’t argue with that, even as I feel the ache settling into my muscles, the leather sticking to my skin. My skirt’s a crumpled mess around my waist, underwear still dangling off one ankle, and I know I’ll feel this tomorrow. But right now, with him still inside me and the afterglow buzzing through my veins, I don’t give a single fuck about anything else. And that’s the problem.
In my whole life, I haven’t wanted someone as much as I want Ethan. Given my history with trouble, I’m not going to get to keep him. I love him, but the only way to keep him safe will be to lose him. Even as I think this through, I have to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from weeping.
I tilt my head back and look at him, really look, and the intensity is still there, softened now but not gone. It makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with sex.
I don’t want this to be a one-off. I don’t want to be another late-night indulgence he forgets once the adrenaline fades. But I also don’t want my past to catch up with us and destroy him.
Going by the messages I just got, I’m afraid that’s already begun.
14
ETHAN
The silence in the car is thick with everything we just did and everything we didn’t say.
Lila’s hair is a mess, her lips are swollen, and there’s a faint pink flush climbing her chest that hasn’t faded yet. She looks satisfied, but she also looks like she’s waiting for the next blow to land. It bothers me more than it should.
I grip the steering wheel tighter and glance over at her. She’s tucked into the passenger seat like she’s trying to shrink into the upholstery. Not scared. Just self-contained again. It’s the same withdrawal I clocked earlier.
That realization needles at me in a way I don’t enjoy. I don’t mind resistance when it’s honest, and I don’t mind distance when it’s earned, but this feels like she’s closing a door without slamming it, careful and quiet, like she doesn’t want to provoke anything. I don’t need to be handled carefully. I don’t like being handled at all.
I clear my throat and shift the car out of park. “You hungry?”
“No,” she says quickly, too quickly, and she keeps her eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of road ahead.
I nod. “Alright.”
The engine hums low as we pull away from the overlook, tires catching the curve of the road as it winds down toward the city. The lights below are scattered and bright, all of it distant enough to feel unreal, and the contrast irritates me. Twenty minutes ago, she was gasping my name with her hands fisted in my jacket, and now she’s sitting there like she’s already halfway gone.
I don’t like the speed of the shift. I don’t like how easily she snaps back into control, like nothing just cracked open between us. It makes me feel like I imagined part of it, and I don’t imagine things.
Silence settles in the car, thick enough to notice, and I let it sit longer than is comfortable. I want to see if she’ll break it. She doesn’t. Her shoulders are squared, posture neat, the kind of composed that reads like armor if you know what you’re looking at.
I tap my thumb against the wheel. “Where do you want me to take you?”
She exhales, slow and careful, like she’s been bracing for that. “Home. I’m meeting some friends.”
I keep my eyes on the road, but my grip tightens again. “Now?”
“Yes.”
It’s not the answer that bothers me. It’s the timing, and the way she says it like a line she’s rehearsed. I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s late, but not unreasonable, and I know better than to pretend logistics are the real issue.
“Who?” I ask.
Her head turns just enough for me to see her profile. “Friends.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She folds her arms, defensive without being dramatic. “It’s not a question I need to answer.”
