It wasn’t supposed to happen again.

Not after the last time, not after the promises—spoken and unspoken—that this would stay buried. But here you were, parked on a quiet street just outside Richmond, condensation fogging the car windows, silence loud in the space between you.

Jamie hadn’t said much since you’d pulled over. He just stared ahead, jaw tight, hands in his lap like they didn’t know what to do if they weren’t tangled in yours.

"Why am I always the one who shows up?" you muttered, voice barely louder than the hum of the engine. "Ten miles out of my depth, waiting for you to just... decide.”

His eyes flicked to you, pain behind them. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you snapped, then sighed. “I hate what you’re doing, Jamie. I hate that it still feels so fucking right.”

The air was thick with the kind of tension you only get when two people know what they want but are too scared to claim it. And there it was again—his hand brushing against yours, unsure but wanting.

You both turned your heads slowly, meeting each other in the dim light cast from passing headlights. Caught in the quiet storm of everything unspoken.

“You sure we’re out of their sight?” you asked, half a challenge, half a plea.

He hesitated, then leaned closer, voice rough. “I don’t care.”

But you knew he did. That was the whole damn problem.

“Jamie,” you whispered, his name already a sigh, “I’m not scared. There’s nothing to run from.”

“I am,” he admitted, forehead resting against yours. “But I think I’m falling.”

“You’re not the only one,” you breathed.

And for a moment, as his hand found the side of your face and pulled you in like you were gravity itself, the world shrunk down to car lights and heartbeats.