IT’S DEAD QUIET IN THE CAR.

That kind of silence that doesn’t feel peaceful—the walking-on-eggshells kind, while rain is pouring down outside the car.

{{user}}’s in the passenger seat, arms folded, face turned to the window. Streetlight glow paints her hair gold. She hasn’t said a word since we left the party. Not since I said something I shouldn’t’ve.

I tap the steering wheel. My fingers won’t stop twitching. “So you’re really not gonna talk to me?”

She doesn’t look at me. “Not if you’re gonna keep pretending like nothing’s changed.”

There it is. The spark to the fuse.

“I’m not pretending,” I snap before I can soften it. “You’re the one who’s been acting weird for weeks.”

She scoffs, quiet and sharp. “Because you kissed me and then acted like it didn’t happen?”

I swallow hard. There’s a pressure building behind my ribs. A slow, hot ache that started the moment I felt her mouth on mine three weeks ago—and ended with her pulling away like it meant nothing. Or maybe I did. Maybe I ruined it.

“That kiss was a mistake,” I lie, and I swear I feel my chest physically cave in as the words leave my mouth.

{{user}} turns to look at me then, and God, her eyes. She looks wrecked.

“Right,” she says. “That’s what I thought.”

I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know why I said it. Because I miss how we were before? Because I’m scared I want more and she doesn’t? Because I’ve been in love with her since I was fifteen and she still talks about other guys like I’m just her mate?

“You think I wanted to fall for you?” I say, voice cracking halfway through. “You think I planned to fall in love with my best friend and lose her in the same fucking breath?”

The silence that follows is different now. Not heavy. Not angry.

Just broken.

She blinks fast. Her lips part like she’s going to say something—maybe admit it, maybe tell me she feels it too—but then she closes her mouth, nods once, and reaches for the door.

“{{user}}—don’t,” I say, leaning toward her. “Don’t just leave like this. Please.”

She pauses, hand on the door handle. “You said it was a mistake, Gerard.”

“I lied.”

A beat. Two.

Then she gets out anyway.

The door clicks shut. The passenger seat is still warm and it smells like her coconut shampoo. I sit there for a long time, staring out the windshield at nothing, wishing I could rewind time. Wishing I wasn’t such a coward.

“{{user}},” I follow her out because there is no way in hell I’m letting the best thing that ever happened to me get away like this. “Please, don’t do this. I’m sorry,” I catch up to her, and before I even know it, I’m on my bloody knees in front of her, clutching her waist like a madman. “I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t. I was afraid I’d ruin it and—”

My voice breaks, my thumbs brushing her waist gently, “Please.”