For a moment, neither of us moves.
I said too much. I was too honest and I made it all even more weird.
Then his eyes find mine, roaming over my face as if all the answers might be written there.
“You deserve so much better,” he murmurs, voice soft.
My throat tightens and I shift in my seat, hyperaware of how close we are. How small the cab feels. How easy it would be to mistake this for something it’s not.
He drops his hand to the seat, inches away from me—then pulls back, rubbing his palm along his thigh instead.
I swallow. “It’s fine.”
His mouth tightens. “It’s not.”
I can feel it—the moment tilting, threatening to becomesomething. My heart beats faster, hope flaring stupid and bright in my chest.
Then the sharp ring of his phone slices through the moment.
Wesley exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face before checking the screen and letting out a bitter laugh.
“Fucking unbelievable,”he mutters, not looking at me before he answers the call. “Yeah?”
I turn toward the window, pressing my forehead lightly against the glass, forcing my breathing to slow.
It doesn’t mean anything.
When he ends the call, he doesn’t meet my eyes right away. Just tosses the phone onto the seat between us, fingers drumming against his thigh.
After a second, he looks at me again. “We should probably talk about it.”
My hand tightens around the hem of my shirt. “We really don’t have to.”
“Maybe not,” he says, his expression carefully blank. “But I don’t want you thinking—” He stops, jaw ticking. “You’re going through a lot, and you’re in a…vulnerable place. I don’t want to take advantage of that. Or give you the wrong impression and blur lines.”
Of course he doesn’t.
I can’t help but laugh—dry and tired. The sound makes him deflate further into his seat.
“Trust me, I’mfine.” I shake my head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
He studies me like he doesn’t believe that, but then he nods once.
“Sure.”
He pulls back out onto the highway. The miles stretch ahead of us again, the endless quiet reclaiming its place between our bodies, heavier than it was before.
Wepullintoagravel lot in front of a quaint little house with weathered wooden siding and flower boxes tucked beneath the windows. I’m reaching for the door handle, already unbuckling, when Wesley stops me.
“Wait here,” he says, hopping out. “Close your eyes—and don’t open them until I say.”
I pause, one hand still wrapped around the handle, eyebrows lifting.
This feels like the setup for a horror movie. I’m the dumb blonde girl who blindly follows orders and ends up chained in a dirty basement somewhere.
But if Wesley were a psychopath, I feel like I’d have picked up on that by now. Homicidal maniacs don’t usually make your stomach flip with a single glance. Right?
Reluctantly, I close my eyes.
