His words confuse me. Maybe it’s one of those airports notorious for luggage going missing.Whatever. I’m here now.I brush it off.
He takes my backpack before I can offer it, before I can question what he just said.
My fingers loosen automatically, like my body makes the decision before my brain has time to weigh in.
His hand brushes mine as he does it. The contact is brief, but it’s enough to send a sharp, unexpected awareness up my arm.
He looks at me then—not in a way that feels overt or performative, but thorough. A full, quiet assessment, like he’s matching what he sees to something he already had in his head.
He notices everything. I can tell that already.
“You look exhausted,” he says. There’s no judgment in it. No edge. If anything, it sounds like he doesn’t like the fact.
I let out a small breath. “I am.”
Something in his expression shifts—subtle, but there. His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second before smoothing out again. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re fixing that.”
The way he says it doesn’t sound like a suggestion.
It sounds like a decision.
Before I can really process that, he reaches up and tucks aloose strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is easy. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.
My skin tingles at his touch.
He smirks. “Wow, what a gentleman, flying you here and immediately telling you how tired you look.”
His fingers linger just a little longer than necessary, brushing lightly along my jaw as he pulls his hand back. He watches my face as he does it, like he’s measuring my reaction.
My body goes still, aware of his touch and now its absence.
“You didn’t lose it,” he says, as if catching himself. “Just like I remember.” He laughs to himself.
“Lose what?”
He gestures at me, up and down. “This.”
I smirk.
Then whatever he was looking for, he must find, because something in his expression settles. “Like I said, I’ve got you,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
The words land deeper than they should. Not because of what they mean.
Because of how much I want to believe them.
He turns before I have to respond, already moving back toward the car. “Come on,” he adds. “Let’s get you home.”
There’s something grounding about that. Simple. Practical. A plan.
I follow him.
He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide into the seat, the leather cool against my legs. The interior smells clean—faint cologne, cedar wood maybe, and something crisp underneath it.
For a moment, I feel… held. Not by him, exactly. By the situation. By the fact that something is happening that I didn’t overthink into nonexistence.
He closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side. When he gets in, he starts the engine without rushing, one large hand settling easily on the wheel.
He glances at me. “First rule,” he says.