We left San Francisco the next morning, the SUV groaning under the weight of our bags and our silence. The fog was still clinging to the city, as if it didn’t want to let us go, but we were already halfway out the door. The drive back was different—quieter, heavier. It was like the city had drained something out of us, left us with only the echoes of what we were too scared to say.
I had only brought a backpack. That’s all I ever needed for these reckless, last-minute trips. But now everything in it was soaked, my jeans still damp from the rain, my chestnut brown Uggs squelching with every move. They were ruined, and I didn’t even care. His skinny, worn-out Element jacket was still dripping from the night before, hanging limply in the backseat like the aftermath of whatever we’d just survived. My toes were freezing, my head pounding from too much tequila, and I was so goddamn exhausted I felt like I might pass out at the wheel.
Because of course, I was driving. I always drove. Guess who had to get us back 18 hours through mountains and rain and stretches of nothing? Me. It was always me. I could’ve fought him on it, demanded he take a shift, but honestly, there was something in that silence, in the weight of him slouched in the passenger seat, that made me want to just keep going. Maybe it was control, or maybe I just didn’t trust him with the wheel—or with me.
The only thing keeping me awake was him. His hand, sliding between my thighs, teasing me just enough to keep my adrenaline pumping. He didn’t say much—he didn’t have to. His touch was enough to make me forget how miserable I felt, how cold and tired and over it I should’ve been. My thighs were soaked, but not from the rain. Fuck, my body would’ve done anything for him. It still would.
I gripped the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white, trying to focus on the road while his hand moved like it had a mind of its own. He knew exactly how to push me, how to bring me to the edge without letting me fall. And he loved it. He loved knowing he had that kind of control over me, even when I was the one behind the wheel.
“Eyes on the road,” he murmured, his voice low and full of that cocky, infuriating edge that made me want to slap him and pull him closer all at once.
“Fuck you,” I snapped, but the words came out breathless, my body betraying me.
He just laughed, that quiet, sharp laugh that made my stomach flip. It wasn’t loud or obnoxious, but it was addictive. He didn’t have to try to charm me—it just happened, like everything else with him.
The hours blurred together. The rain came and went, the mountains loomed and disappeared, and the highway stretched endlessly in front of us. I was exhausted, my body aching, my head pounding, but I kept driving. I kept going because stopping felt like giving in, and I couldn’t do that. Not with him sitting there, not with the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.
And yet, even in the silence, even in the moments where I wanted to scream at him for being so goddamn impossible, I couldn’t help but love him. Because he was mine, in all his chaos and flaws and brilliance. And I was his, even when I didn’t want to be.
By the time we finally stopped, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, the rain had started up again, a steady drizzle that felt more like a soundtrack than an inconvenience. I stepped out of the car, stretching my legs, my feet squelching in my ruined boots, and leaned against the hood. He followed me, his hair a mess, his jacket still wet, and stood next to me, not saying a word.
We didn’t need to. The silence between us said it all.
I lit a cigarette—one of the few left in a crumpled pack we’d picked up at a gas station somewhere along the way—and took a long drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs and dull the ache in my chest. He watched me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, that smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“You good?” he asked finally, his voice softer than I expected.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
Because the truth was, I wasn’t good. I wasn’t okay. I was tired and cold and completely fucking undone by him. But I’d take it—every miserable, chaotic second of it—because it was him. And he was worth it.
We got back in the car, and I kept driving. His hand found its way back to my thigh, his touch just as maddening, just as intoxicating as before. And I let him, because no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much I hated him for it, I couldn’t say no to him.
I never could.
