yours.

[16] Jasper

My hand freezes halfway to the plastic shopping bag. "Miles." I resist the urge to cringe. "You're here."

"I am," he says, sounding as amazed as I feel. The cashier glances between us, tired.

"Are you going to check out?" I ask Miles, my gaze flicking down to the giant jug of something -- pretzels, maybe? -- in his grasp. He seems to remember what he's here for and steps forward to place his goods on the checkout belt. I take my bags and step aside to let Miles pay -- with a debit card, I notice -- then watch as he collects his receipt and bagged purchases before coming to join me.

"Why are you here?" he asks me as we exit the store together.

I forge ahead of him. "My father forgot to buy eggs and sugar today on his errands," I explain, waiting for him to catch up, "so my mum sent me to come get them."

"That's not fair."

I turn to him, surprised.

"Why should you have to? He forgot the stuff, he should have to come buy it." He glances at me sideways, his gaze roving over my features.

I face away, uneasy from the attention. "It's not a big deal."

Miles and I stop on the pavement outside the store, waiting for a red minivan to pass. But even after it comes and leaves, we remain, side by side. My bags weigh down my arms, and I peer out over the gray expanse of the parking lot, which now glows a soft pink, granted by the radiant hue of the setting sun.

I look at Miles. His skin seems softer, more flushed in the light, and the strands of his hair shine brighter, gaining a striking gold tint. And for a moment, while his gaze is fixed somewhere in the lot, I imagine myself kissing him.

I picture dropping my bags of food and stepping in front of him, my heart warming at the sight of his surprised smile for just a second before I rise onto my toes and press my lips against his.

It's a dangerous thought, one I shut down almost immediately.

I don't know what I'm thinking -- he'd obviously just push me away. Or, even worse, leave me alone on the curb. And I don't think I could deal with that scale of rejection.

I tear my gaze from Miles' face and turn sharply to the left, starting toward home. Miles rushes to catch up with me, his grocery bag swinging at his side.

"Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?"

Miles blocks my way, and I come to an abrupt stop before I can slam into him. My cheeks flush with heat. "At least let me walk you to your car."

I duck around him. "Don't have a car," I mutter, hoping he won't follow me.

He does, of course. "What... how did you get here, then?" At my silence, he says slowly, "You walked."

I nod silently.

"All the way from home?" he asks, skeptical. "You walked all the--"

"Yes, Miles."

He reaches out to grab my arm with surprising gentleness, and my traitorous feet stop walking. "Let me drive you."

I imagine myself in an enclosed space with him and quickly shake my head. "No, thank you," I respond quietly. But I don't keep walking.

He tugs my arm lightly, his fingers wrapping around my forearm, and I feel my heart clench. No, no, no. "Come on. It'll take forever to walk."

Why is he being so stubborn? I wonder, every one of my nerves turning its focus on his grasp on my arm. And why is he touching me? "Only seventeen minutes, actually," I manage.

"It takes five in a car."

I think of the ache already building in my shoulders and turn back to meet his eye. His earnest expression catches me off guard, and I find myself falling into the vibrant green depths of his eyes before I can stop myself. He watches me calmly, easily. He already knows he's won.

"Fine," I sigh. "Where are you parked?"

* * *

The ride is silent and just as brutal as I envisioned. I stare out of the window to keep myself entertained and focused on anything other than the boy sitting to my left.

My arm still feels warm from where he held it, and it remains rigid, fixed to the armrest beside me.

Miles' fingers drum restlessly against the leather steering wheel, and he keeps sneaking glances at me in a way I'm sure he thinks is discreet. I eventually turn to face forward, watching as we ease through a stoplight.

"You're a better driver than I thought you'd be," I mutter, in an attempt to bridge the silence between us.

Miles visibly relaxes, his fingers loosening on the wheel. "Oh, really?" he chuckles.

"Yeah."

"What were you expecting?"

I shift in my seat, nudging the shopping bags at my feet. "A crash," I admit. "Or a speeding ticket, at least."

Miles laughs shamelessly, and my stomach flips. "Wow, thanks for the confidence." He pulls up to a stop sign in our neighbourhood and turns to look at me. "I could get in a crash, though. For you."

Our gazes lock, and it's like all the air in the car is sucked out through the vents, and I can't breathe. His stare is soft and warm, and magnetic, somehow, pulling me in and returning me to the dangerous place of my thoughts, of my unchecked imagination. My mind whirls with possibilities of him and me and us. All because of two words.

For you.

"For... me?"

Then Miles blinks, severing the connection between us, and it's like he wakes from a trance. "I'm sorry, that was... a weird thing to say."

Embarrassed by the ill-placed hope clouding my judgment, I turn back to the window and roll my eyes. "Yeah, it was." Stupid, I chide myself. I need to stop thinking like this. I know I do, and yet I can never seem to.

The rest of the trip passes in heavy silence, and I remain tense in my seat. After another minute, Miles pulls up to the curb between our houses and sets the car in park. We just sit there for a while, our eyes set on something undefined on the road ahead of us.

Then, realizing he's probably waiting for me to leave, I reach to grab the shopping bags at my feet with one hand and the car's interior handle with the other. But just as I begin to push against the door, anxiety closing in on my mind, Miles sits up straighter in his seat.

"Jasper... wait."

I do.

He watches me carefully, surprised I listened. He runs a hand absently along the dashboard, his brow furrowed in thought. "We're... friends," he says, his eyes not meeting mine. "Right?"

My hand slides from the handle. "Sure, I guess." Friends. He still thinks we're just friends.

I don't know if that's a good or bad thing.

I start to open the door again, and this time, Miles grabs my wrist. I snap back into my seat, my eyes drilling into his tan fingers. "Jasper, really." Slowly, I meet his green gaze. "Are we friends?"

This doesn't happen to "friends." "Yes," I croak out, hoping my expression is still neutral. "We're friends, Miles."

We stare at each other for just a second too long before Miles nods, seemingly satisfied with my response. "See you tomorrow, then?"

I say something I hope sounds like yes before ducking out of the vehicle and slamming its door behind me.

So much for getting over him.