Firefly Night

CHAPTER 12

The silence between us felt like a living thing, growing thicker and heavier with every mile that passed under the tires. The rain pounded against the windshield, drowning out everything but the sound of our unspoken thoughts. Colt's hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that I could see the tension in his forearms, the veins standing out against his tanned skin. His jaw was clenched, lips pressed into a thin, hard line that hadn't softened since we left the bonfire.

I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching the raindrops race down the glass, each one carving its own uncertain path through the darkness. It was almost hypnotic, the way they merged and split, their journeys so much like the chaotic swirl of thoughts in my mind. Every drop seemed to carry the weight of what I wanted to say, what I couldn't bring myself to voice. The questions, the doubts, the hurt—all of it mingled with the rain in a silent downpour that Colt couldn't hear.

It felt as though the world had shrunk to the confines of this truck, like we were trapped in a bubble where time moved differently—slower, more deliberate, each second stretching out in unbearable silence. The distance between us, only a few inches in the cramped cab, felt like miles. I could sense the storm inside him, the way it mirrored my own, but neither of us seemed willing or able to breach the gap.

The images from the bonfire replayed in my mind in an endless loop—Rhett's possessive grip, Colt's stormy expression, the firelight flickering between shadows of doubt and anger. The words I wanted to say were caught somewhere deep inside, tangled up with the fear that saying them would make everything worse, would push us past a point of no return.

When we finally pulled into the driveway, the rain had eased to a soft drizzle, the world outside muted and gray, as though even the night itself was exhausted from the turmoil. Colt cut the engine, and the sudden silence was jarring, amplifying the tension that hung heavy between us. We just sat there, the faint tap of raindrops on the roof the only sound in the thick, oppressive quiet.

Neither of us moved, neither of us spoke. It was as if we were waiting for something—for the other to speak first. I could feel the unsaid words pressing against my throat, a painful lump that made it hard to swallow, hard to think. My hand hovered near the door handle, but I couldn't bring myself to open it, to shatter this fragile, unbearable moment.

Finally, Colt let out a long breath, the sound breaking through the stillness like a fragile thread snapping under too much pressure. He turned to look at me, his eyes searching mine, but I couldn't read the expression on his face. Was it regret? Frustration? Something else entirely? I didn't know, and that uncertainty gnawed at me, making the ache in my chest even worse.

"Lemon," he began, his voice rough, like he was forcing the words out. "We need to talk about what happened tonight."

He was right, of course—we did need to talk. But the way he said it, like he was the one who had been wronged, like he was the one who had a right to be upset, made something inside me snap.

I stiffened at his words, the knot in my chest tightening.

"Do we, Colt?" I snapped back, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "Because I'm not sure there's anything left to say."

He blinked, caught off guard by my tone, and for a moment, I almost regretted it. But then his own frustration flared, and I could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers curled into fists in his lap.

"You can't be serious, Lemon," he said, his eyes narrowing as he leaned closer, his voice low. "You're really going to sit there and pretend like none of this matters?"

The anger in his voice only fueled mine. It wasn't supposed to be like this. We weren't even together, not really, so why did it feel like I was betraying him just by being with Rhett? And why did it hurt so damn much to see him with someone else?