He just stood there—one trembling hand braced on the door, breath fogging in the bitter air, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the street.
I climbed in without thinking. The coat swallowed me.
He shut the door gently—too gently—like I might break if it made a sound.
The silence that followed was…total.
Luka stood outside for a breath, maybe two, the streetlights carving sharp lines across the parts of him still exposed.
Then he got in beside me without looking at me at all. He gripped the steering wheel with bare hands, shoulders rigid as if he didn’t trust himself to move.
I didn’t trust myself to breathe.
I watched his profile—the exposed line of his throat, the knuckles whitening on the wheel—as he flicked the ignition. Theengine shuddered to life. The dash lights washed him in a pale, spectral glow.
We sat for a full minute in the roaring silence, Luka’s face a canvas of shifting shadows, his breathing so shallow I counted three exhalations before he blinked or moved. My heart battered at my ribs, desperate to fill the vacuum.
“Luka—”
“Don’t.”
A single word, and the air in the car pressed closer.
He shifted into gear and pulled out onto the street.
I hugged the coat tighter around my body, suddenly conscious of how little separated me from exposure. And from him. My muscles ached—thighs, hips, every inch stamped with the bruisy aftermath of the club.
London rolled past my window—cobbled and cold. We drifted through side streets, Luka’s driving mechanical, his gaze never leaving the tunnel of road ahead.
I wanted to reach for him.
I wanted to ask if I’d fucked up, if he was angry or just emptied, if the look on his face meant I’d crossed some line in the club that couldn’t be taken back.
Had it been too much? Had I tipped from desirable to dangerous, the way desperate women always do?
I let the road hypnotize me—the wet black reflecting the streetlights. I angled my shoulder against the passenger door, buried in his coat, the ghost of his grip still on my skin.
“Where are we going?” My voice was too thin, a tight coil of thread threatening to snap.
His eyes flicked toward me—just a glance—then back to the road. “Your hotel.”
My stomach dropped, the feeling hollow and sudden.
Of course. Of course he was taking me back.
I didn’t even know what I’d hoped for. For him to take me home with him? For this to mean something?
Stupid.
I’d been a challenge. Something to burn through and leave behind.
And now it was over.
Back to the real world. Back to my hotel room and my suitcases and the merciless company of my own thoughts.
A red light hung us in stasis. The wipers ticked across the glass, pushing aside the fine mist that slicked the windshield with city grime. Headlights flared past us, blinding and gone again.
“You don’t have clothes, Alex.” His lips barely moved. His voice was so flat, I nearly missed his words. “You don’t even have a toothbrush.”