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Then, with barely enough time for me to decide whether I should move, he reverses slightly and lowers the passenger-side window.

“You coming or what?” he asks, glancing down at his phone.

With a sigh, I slide my bag off my shoulder, open the door, and climb inside. The second I do, his cologne hits me so hard it steals my breath.

As if his presence alone weren’t already messing with my senses, now his scent fills my lungs, making it impossible to escape him, even inside my own head.

Driving with one hand, perfectly relaxed, he pulls away from the parking lot.

The radio is on, and right then, Sway by Michael Bublé starts playing.

At this point, I honestly don’t know whether to laugh or cry. It feels like everything is conspiring against me lately.

Last night, I decided I needed complete distance from him, that I shouldn’t see him anymore, and now I’m trapped alone in the same car with him.

The same one where I saw those panties the first time I got inside. And even though he explained that he wasn’t the one using the car that night, I still can’t control the way the memory affects me.

“I don’t know if I should congratulate you for finally not having a random pair of panties in your car,” I say sharply, staring ahead, “or if I should look harder because I’d probably find some… or something else.”

The atmosphere shifts instantly.

Until now, I’ve been the only one feeling tense, with him remaining calm and seemingly unaffected.

Now his posture tightens, his jaw setting as his grip shifts on the steering wheel.

But he says nothing.

He keeps his eyes on the road, silent as the song continues playing softly in the background.

When it becomes clear that he has no intention of saying anything, I decide I should probably keep myself occupied before my thoughts consume me.

I open my bag and pull out my phone, resting it on my left thigh as I reach for a pen and the notebook where I wrote down a few notes about the hotel I inspected earlier.

My hand disappears into the bag again when the phone suddenly starts ringing. Both Zayn and I glance down at it.

And it feels like déjà vu.

Axel’s name lights up the screen.

A sharp, bitter laugh escapes Zayn, thick with anger, as he slowly shakes his head.

“Oh… looks like you unblocked your fiancé after all,” he says, his voice cold enough to make my stomach tighten as I turn to face him. “Please, answer it,” he adds harshly. “If you want, I can even pull over and get out so you two can talk privately.”

He slows the car as he speaks, the steering wheel jerking beneath his hand. I grab it immediately and straighten us back into the lane, shooting him a dark glare.

His attention remains fixed on the road, jaw clenched.

There’s no chance for me to respond because my phone starts ringing again.

Same name.

“Either answer or shut it off already,” he snaps.

One hand tightens around the steering wheel until his knuckles pale, the other closing firmly around the gear shift.

I mute the call, switch the phone to silent, and shove it back into my bag.

“You suddenly don’t have that many words to say now that you’re not in a position to throw accusations anymore,” he says, his tone edged with fury.