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He huffs a quiet laugh, leaning a little closer to the glass. “You’ll be here all night waiting for them. Let me give you a lift.”

I shake my head fast. “No, really. It’s fine. I’m good.”

“You’re not good. Your car’s dead.” He smiles softly. “Come on. It’s freezing. Let me drive you home.”

Oh, God. A thirty-minute ride trapped in a car with Noah. Thirty minutes of him fumbling words, stealing looks when he thinks I won’t notice, breathing the same air as me while every cell in my body tries to pretend Saturday never happened. It’s a terrible idea. A catastrophic idea.

Because I know exactly what’ll happen—I’ll stare out the window, he’ll fill the silence with nervous half-sentences, and the longer we’re stuck together, the more my brain will drag me straight back into his bed. The weight of his shoulders between my thighs. His mouth, hot and desperate, spelling my name into my skin. Thirty minutes of that? I’ll be a lunatic by the time we hit the apartment lot.

But what other choice do I have? He’s right, roadside will take half the night, and I don’t want to lose my nipples to frostbite.

“Fine.” The word rips out of me on a groan. I wind up the window, grab my bag off the passenger seat, shove the strap over my shoulder, and shove the door open. “Which one’s yours?”

He jerks his chin toward the far row and starts walking. I trail after him, boots crunching against the frosted asphalt. He weaves between the rows until he stops beside a sleek black sedan that looks painfully out of place in this lot full of dented hatchbacks and salt-streaked SUVs. Of course this is his. Polished, buttoned-up, perfectly presentable—just like the man himself is supposed to be.

He presses the fob, lights flashing once, and pulls the handle on the passenger side. The door swings open toward me and he waits, one hand braced lightly on the frame.

My heart stutters, stupid and too loud, and I grit my teeth against it. I have to force myself to move, to duck my head and slide into the seat, my bag clutched tight to my chest like armor. The leather creaks under me, chilled and stiff, the faint scent of his cologne ghosting in the air.

He shuts the door softly and a second later, the driver’s door opens, and then he’s sliding in beside me. He fumbles with the air con like it’s suddenly the most complicated machine in the world, buttons clicking uselessly beneath his fingers. “Music,” he blurts. “Do you like music? We could—uh—put something on?”

A groan worms its way out of my throat and his head tilts toward me. “So… is that a yes?”

“Just put something on, Noah,” I mutter, yanking the belt across my lap, clicking it into place. “I don’t care. I just want to get home.”

Away from the smell of your cologne, away from the heat bleeding off your skin, away from the way this already feels like too much.

He jams the key into the ignition clumsily and the engine rumbles to life. His fingers stumble over the dial again. He presses too hard, the vents wheeze, then he tries again and the dashboard lights up like a cheap Christmas tree. Finally, mercifully, some quiet music trickles through the speakers.

Then, with a quick shift into gear, he eases us out of the lot, headlights carving a path into the dark.

The silence stretches, thick and awkward, filled only by the low hum of the engine and the music playing lightly in the background. I can feel him next to me, every fidget, every shift of his shoulders, rolling off him like static.

The car eases to a stop at the light, his hand darting for the gearstick—too quick, too close. His knuckles skim my thigh on the way down—barely there, accidental, but it lights me up like a struck match.

Every muscle in me goes rigid. Heat blooms low, traitorous, pooling fast, and my legs snap tighter together before I can even think.

It yanks me straight back to the Cos meeting, my knee pressed against his under the table. It was an accident at first—but I left it there, because it felt good, because he froze like a live wire. And now my body’s primed to treat Noah Calloway fumbling for third gear like it’s foreplay.

“Shit,” he blurts, jerking his hand back so fast it thuds against the console. “Sorry—I didn’t—fuck, I wasn’t—” His voice tangles in itself until he shuts his mouth, choking on whatever apology he was trying to spit out.

I keep my gaze on the dark blur of trees whipping past the window, jaw locked tight. “Eyes on the road, Noah.” My voice comes out clipped, flat—thank God—because my stomach’s in free-fall and my pulse is thrumming way too hard for something so small.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the death-grip he’s got on the wheel. He doesn’t say another word. Neither do I.

My eyes drift down for a second, to the place on my thigh where his hand skimmed. Barely a touch, nothing deliberate—but my skin hums like it remembers. My gaze shifts to his hand still curled tight around the stick, veins taut, fingers flexing once before locking still again.

I don’t know why my chest’s gone tight, why my breath feels clipped and uneven, like my lungs have forgotten the rhythm. Stupid. It was nothing. A simple graze. An accident.

And yet my pulse won’t settle, no matter how hard I will it to. And every damn mile—every second locked in this little metal box with him—is making it so much worse.

Is he thinking about it too?

Yes, it’s Noah. Of course he is.

I risk another glance. His grip on the wheel’s shifted, fingers flexing and tightening like he wants to strangle the leather. I want those fingers in me, spreading, pressing, working me open right here in the passenger seat.

What am I doing? This is wrong. Stupid. But I want it.