6:30 PM.
Kadin’s party starts at seven.
The sky is dipping into that soft indigo that settles just before full night, the neighborhood quiet except for the hum of my engine. My phone lights up again in the cupholder, another message from Cheyenne or Maria asking where I am, whether he’s coming, whether I survived dinner.
Where the hell is Silas?
Leaning forward, I press the horn, not once but twice, then again for good measure. The sharp blast slices through the quiet street. Impatience crawls under my skin, but beneath it is something heavier. The thought of being trapped in this car with him after what happened at dinner twists in my stomach in a way I don’t want to think about.
Unlocking my phone instead of thinking about it, I scroll through my playlists, landing on The Red Clay Strays, turningthe volume up higher than necessary. The music fills the car, vibrating faintly through the seats, giving my thoughts something to fight against.
It was just agame.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
Silas pushes boundaries because he wants control. Because he wants reactions. Because if he can make me uncomfortable, then he’s not the only one carrying damage in this house.
That’s all it was.
Except it didn’t feel like that.
My grip tightens around the wheel as the memory creeps back in anyway. The weight of his hand on my thigh. The steady pressure of his fingers. The way he didn’t rush it, didn’t fumble or hesitate. He held me there like he had every right to.
Worse than that, I didn’t want him to move.
That realization makes my chest tighten.
Why did it ground me instead of unraveling me? Why did it make every carefully built rule in my head blur at the edges?
A sudden thud against my window jerks me out of my spiral.
Turning sharply just as Silas’s palm slides down the glass, he’s leaning in slightly, his face partially shadowed beneath the brim of a dark baseball cap. The hoodie from earlier is gone. In its place is a dark brown flannel with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the inked lines of his forearms. A fitted dark shirt stretches across his torso, the fabric pulling slightly at his chest and shoulders when he moves.
The look isn’t softer.
It’s sharper.
If this is an attempt to look less threatening, it fails completely.
Pushing the door open, I step out, staring at him. “What?”
“I’m driving.”
He doesn’t phrase it like a suggestion. It’s a decision already made.
Before I can react, his hand catches the hem of my shirt and tugs, pulling me backward just enough that I lose my footing. The motion isn’t violent, but it’s strong. My balance falters as he slides into the driver’s seat in the same fluid movement.
“You are not driving my fucking car,” I snap, reaching instinctively for the keys still in the ignition.
Lunging across the center console to stop him, I twist toward the ignition. In the scramble, I tip forward, my body half sprawled across his lap, one knee pressed into the seat, the other leg still awkwardly outside the car.
The movement is abrupt enough that we both freeze.
The music continues to hum through the speakers, now softer against the sudden stillness between us, my breath coming faster than I want it to as his hand slides to the small of my back.
Not rough.
Not pushing me away.
