Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

46 | Foggy Windows

DOMINGO
4:56 PM

Dahlia Gray

Harlow leans against the trunk of Presley's Mustang, without a cigarette in hand.

I fell into the space beside him, saving little distance between us. It felt more natural this way, and the decision to do so was purely based on circumstance. Before, he was always smoking and the smell of cigarettes would always linger on his clothes and force me to go into a fit of coughs. This time, without that barrier, I stood right beside him.

Right where I should be.

He doesn't say anything, but I could see his eyes fitted in the distance and he doesn't turn to meet my gaze. His hands stuffed into the pocket of his black hoodie, and his jawline sharpens for a second—almost like he was trying to control himself. I debated if it was about me: because this is our first lesson since that day, and this time, he knows more about me than he ever did before.

He knows more about me than anyone else.

"Hi," I prompt the first greeting, feeling a bit at odds, knowing Harlow always does it for me. He turns, setting his piercing blue eyes on me, and they soften significantly. His features relax, his jaw loosen, and his gaze studies me with such complexity, I would count the stars to know what he was thinking.

He swallows, fidgeting inside the pocket of his hoodie. "Hey," he returns, trying to appear indifferent, "anything going on at home?"

My smile falters, knowing the inevitableness of this question, but always fearing it in the end. "Nothing too bad," I answer, watching how his brows slightly raise, not convinced at my words. I don't blame him, but this time, I'm being honest. "I'm serious. There's nothing. Come on, let's start driving."

I twist around in my spot, taking precisely two steps towards the driver side, before Harlow wraps his fingers around my wrist, twirling me back into place.

He steps forward, cupping my cheek with the mold of his warm hand and his intense gaze staring back at me. His brows crease together, studying the outline of my face and catching the emotions layered thick beneath my eyes. "Dahlia," he says my name, like a breath of fresh air, "you know you can't hold in your fucking emotions when driving, right? That's the whole point of this."

He gestures between us with his free hand, describing our non-labelled relationship, and I take in the moment.

He's so close. His breath fans against my skin, and his lips a couple of centimeters away. His eyes set on mine, undressing me with one look, and I feel myself warm underneath his scrutiny. My stomach tingles, my heart running leaps, and we're just a couple of inches off by height, that I could just tip-toed on my feet and catch one everlasting kiss from him.

I grab onto his arm, like they were the only thing holding me upright. My grip tightens around his forearm, and he spares down a glance. "I'm not," I answer softly, eyes locked with his. Please, love me. "I just don't feel like talking about my dad right now, and talking about him ruins the mood. The mere fact that you brought him up already dampers my mood." I pause, studying him, "I came here to get away from him, remember? Isn't that the whole point of this?"

Realization struck him like a lightning bolt, and a flash of guilt crossed his features. He drops his hand, forcing me to feel the coldness of the breeze, and he swallows hard. "Fuck, I didn't mean to—" He pauses, calculating his words, shifting his gaze to the ground. He looks back at me. "Is there anything I can do to make you stop thinking about him?"

A thought occurs to me, and it lights a thousand nerves. It almost made me laugh, how stupid the idea appears to be, but it's just a simple tease—a tease that could quite terribly cross the boundaries between us. It's a joke. Nothing more, nothing less.