I blink. “What?”
“No one’s checking you here,” he says. “So don’t start doing it to yourself.”
That’s exactly what I want to hear. Freedom. Space. No monitoring. No explaining.
My shoulders almost drop.Almost.
“No checking in,” he continues. “No updates. No one tracking you.”
The words are right. The sentiment is right. And yet, something about the way he says it feels pre-decided. Like he’s not offering an idea. He’s setting a condition.
He glances at my phone in my lap. “Do you have location sharing on?”
“I… don’t know,” I admit.
He lets out a quiet, almost amused breath. “Jesus.” Then he holds his hand out. “Let me see.” There’s nothing sharp in his tone. No force behind it. If anything, it sounds practical. Efficient. Like the obvious next step.
My fingers tighten slightly around the phone, just for a second. A small, instinctive pause that flickers through me before I can fully grab hold of it. Then it’s gone.
I place the unlocked phone in his hand.
He moves quickly—tap, tap, done—and hands it back like it was nothing. “There,” he says. “Better.”
I stare at the screen for a moment longer than I mean to. It’s such a small thing—a setting. But it leaves a strange pressure in my chest, like something shifted without me fully agreeing to it.
He’s already pulling out of the pickup lane, merging into traffic smoothly, like his attention was never divided. Like that moment didn’t matter.
And maybe it didn’t. Maybe I’m reading too much into everything now. That’s bound to happen when you spend too long in a situation where every small thing means something.
His hand comes to rest on my thigh. Just settles there. Warm. Solid. Like it belongs.
My breath catches. I don’t move it. Don’t acknowledge it.
But my body does.
My pulse jumps under his palm. My muscles tighten, then hold, like they’re waiting for instructions.
His thumb drags once, absent, like he’s not thinking about it. “You’re tense,” he says.
I stare out the window. “I’ve had a long week.”
“We’ll fix that, too.” His hand presses slightly, a brief, grounding weight. Then, lighter—“You’re mine this weekend,” he says, almost like a joke. “Try not to fight me on that.”
I let out a small laugh. Because it sounds like flirting. Because it sounds like something I should want. Because it fits neatly into a version of reality where this is simple and easy and safe.
But underneath that, something in me tightens. Not enough to stop anything. Not enough to say no.
Just enough to notice.
And that, more than anything, is what unsettles me.
Because I’ve learned what it feels like to ignore that instinct.
And I’m not sure yet if this is different—or just better disguised.
CHAPTER 11
IVY