All That Went Unsaid | Complete (18+)

Chapter 22

Raymond Reynold's POV

Headlights swept across the cracked pavement just as the old hatchback coughed its way around the corner. I recognized her before the car itself—the messy bun piled on top of her head, the glint of her eyes through the windshield, the familiar stiffness in her shoulders that told me she wasn't as calm as she wanted me to believe.

The car groaned to a stop in front of me, paint chipped, a dent along the passenger door like it had survived a few careless scrapes. She leaned across the seat to push the door open, the movement tugging the neckline of her shirt just low enough to make me remember every damn reason I shouldn't be looking.

"Hop in," Sophie said, voice clipped but soft in its edges, like she wasn't sure how close she wanted me.

I slid inside, the interior carrying a faint, intoxicating mix of vanilla, old leather, and something that was unmistakably her. My knees brushed the dashboard. "Nice ride, princess," I drawled, earning the sharp side-eye I'd secretly missed.

She shifted the gear with a decisive flick of her wrist. "Don't get too comfortable. I'm taking you for coffee. Ethiopian. It's famous here, and... I wanted to show you the place."

The way she said I wanted to show you—like it cost her something—made heat crawl up my spine. It reminded me how we both used to go to our favourite coffee place in the suburbs after school.

The evening wrapped around us as the car rattled down narrow streets, her profile lit in fleeting strokes of neon and passing lamps. My gaze lingered where it shouldn't—the curve of her jaw, the dip of her collarbone, the concentration furrowing her brow. Every second was a reminder of what it was like to love her, and worse, of what it was like to lose her.

I cleared my throat, forcing words out before silence could swallow me whole. "So... how's the project? Your lab?"

Her grip on the wheel tightened. "It's... complicated."

"Everything with you is complicated." I softened it with a grin, and to my relief, her lips quirked. Just barely.

"I haven't materialized any investors yet. Just queries, a few pitch presentations here and there. They nod along, they ask questions... but once they realize the project won't give them much profit—that it's more humanitarian—they back out." Her words carried a practiced detachment, but the way her jaw clenched told me she hated admitting it.

I wanted to reach across the small space between us, take her hand off the gearshift and hold it until that tension broke. Instead, I kept my voice steady. "That's their loss."

She gave a low laugh, bitter and too short-lived. "That's easy for you to say." A pause. Then, quieter: "Honestly... if it weren't for that perfume commercial you pushed me into, I wouldn't even be able to pay my staff right now."

I turned my head to watch her fully. She didn't look at me, eyes fixed on the road, but the admission lingered between us like static.

"Then I'm glad you did it," I said. "Glad I could help in some way."

The air thickened, heavy with something unspoken. Her lips parted, like she might answer, but instead she shifted gears again, knuckles white. The engine rattled and the silence grew dangerous.

I had the urge to lean closer, to tell her I'd wait as long as it took—for the investors, for her heart, for everything. Instead, I let the hum of her car fill the space, pretending the ache in my chest wasn't from the fact that sitting this close to Sophie Esinberg still felt like the most dangerous thing I'd ever done.

She took a sharp turn, her hand gripping the worn steering wheel tight, and added, "The government funds have mostly run out. Ethiopia's government told me they can't finance my research anymore. Even though it's a noble cause, even though it would help their people drink good, clean water."