Page 17 of On the Breakaway

She keeps her eyes focused on the road, but she rubs her hand against her thigh as if she can brush off my question.

“I don’t like feeling like other people have a say,” she says finally, her voice flat and more emotionless than I’m used to. “Or control.”

I nod once, replaying the moment in the store with that in mind, the way she reacted and how it escalated.

“I wasn’t trying to do that.” I turn down the next road she points at. “Control anything, I mean. I saw an opportunity to do something nice and took it.”

She chews on her bottom lip.

“I won’t do it again,” I add, feeling like it’s important she knows I respect whatever boundary this is for her.

“Good.” Her eyes flick toward me, searching my face like she’s trying to decide if I actually mean it.

Her posture has shifted with her body angled a little less toward the door. We drive the rest of the way like that, somewhere between guarded and normal, the space between us no longer completely hostile, even if it’s not exactly comfortable either.

I pull up to the curb, motioning to the building. “Is this it?”

Before I can say anything else, before I can even reach for the door handle, she’s already moving, pushing the door open like she’s been waiting for the car to stop since we turned onto her street.

“Hey… ” I start, instinct kicking in as I unbuckle and reach for my own door. “Let me…”

I’m not fast enough.

She’s out, the door shutting behind her as she pops the back door open and grabs her grocery bag in one quick motion. I push my door open anyway, stepping out just as she swings the back door shut and heads for the steps leading up to her place.

“Chaos,” I call after her, grabbing my own bag from the back. “At least take some real food with you.”

I know what her answer will be before she even says it.

“Not a chance in hell.”

She doesn’t stop. Of course she doesn’t.

I take a few steps forward anyway, holding up the bag. “I’ve got actual groceries. Stuff that isn’t instant noodles and whatever that frozen thing was.”

She slows and glances over her shoulder, one brow lifting. “I like my trash.”

I chuckle as I follow her up the first couple of steps, stopping short of crowding her space. “Yeah, I gathered that. Still, you could try eating something that doesn’t come with instructions on the back.”

She turns fully then, stepping up onto the landing, keys already in hand as she faces me, that familiar edge back in place.

“You’re supposed to stop being nice.”

“A habit that’s hard to break.” My grin is wide, but all she does is put her hand on her hip.

“I have zero interest in your meal planning.”

“It’s not a meal plan, it’s basic survival.”

“I survive just fine.” She unlocks the door, still watching me. “Thanks for the ride.”

Then she’s gone.

The door shuts behind her with a quiet click that somehow manages to echo in my head. I stand there staring at the closed door like it might open again, as if she’ll come back out with another jab.

By the time I slide back into the driver’s seat, tossing my bag onto the passenger side, I’m already replaying the way she shut down when things shifted even slightly out of her control.

My hands rest on the steering wheel while I stare at nothing in particular, my mind working through it whether I want it to or not.