The Ride Home

SLOANE

I left Chase’s dorm at 9:47 p.m. with my turtleneck inside out and my pulse still trying to murder me.

I didn’t notice the shirt until I was halfway down the hall.

I stopped under the stale dorm heat, satchel slipping off my shoulder, hair wrecked, mouth swollen, thighs aching, and just stared at the wrong-side-out seam like it could save me from the fact that I had just spent the night in my stepbrother’s bed.

Again.

In his actual college dorm this time—which somehow made it worse.

And better.

And worse.

I fixed the shirt in the communal bathroom with shaking hands, splashed cold water on my face, and met my reflection long enough to hate it.

Flushed cheeks.

Blown pupils.

A mouth that had zero interest in pretending it had only been kissed once.

“Great,” I muttered. “Very subtle. Very journalist.”

My phone buzzed.

ETHAN: Still good? About to head back.

Right. Ethan.

Because I had shown up at Dalton with another person and then detonated the entire return plan by letting Chase drag me into his dorm with one look and zero self-control.

I leaned against the sink and typed.

ME: Yeah. Still good.

ME: You can go. I got a hotel room.

ME: I’ll be back Sunday.

Three dots appeared instantly.

ETHAN: Okay

ETHAN: Are you safe?

The question landed harder than it should have.

I stared at the screen.

ME: Yes

ME: Just complicated

A long pause.

ETHAN: Understatement seems likely

ETHAN: Drive careful Sunday

ETHAN: Text if you need anything

I swallowed.

ME: Thanks

He sent a thumbs-up.

No accusations. No guilt trip. Just quiet decency that made me feel like the worst kind of liar.

I left the dorm five minutes later.

The campus was empty under yellow lamplight and cold November air. My rideshare smelled like pine air freshener and old coffee. I sat in the back with my coat buttoned to my throat and my hands tucked under my thighs, trying not to feel my own body too closely.

Trying not to replay the way Chase had looked when I left.

Not casual.

Not victorious.

Just quiet and wrecked and more real than I could handle.

The hotel was fifteen minutes away—bland business-class, receptionist who didn’t blink at my walk-of-shame appearance. In the elevator my phone buzzed again.

CHASE: Text me when you get there

I stared at it until the doors opened.

My room was too clean, too cold, too anonymous. I locked the door, dropped my satchel, kicked off my boots, and sat on the edge of the bed still wearing my coat.

Then I texted him.

ME: Here

He answered in seconds.

CHASE: Good

CHASE: Thought about following you

My face went hot.

ME: That would’ve been insane

CHASE: I know

CHASE: Still thought about it

I didn’t answer.

I showered in bleach-scented steam and tiny soap bars. Slept badly. Woke up with his voice still in my head and the ghost of his pillow crease behind my eyes.

By Sunday afternoon I was driving back to Eastlake alone under a low gray sky that already felt like winter.

By Monday morning I was back at school pretending none of it had happened.

Again.

---

The newsroom smelled like printer ink, burnt coffee, and old tension.

I walked in with my laptop and the Dalton folder under my arm and felt the shift the second I crossed the threshold.

Ethan was at the photo station sorting Friday shots. Ava leaned over the layout table, pencil behind one ear, talking November spacing with Nora in that calm, always-three-steps-ahead voice.

Both of them looked up.

“Hey,” Ethan said.

“Hey.”

Easy tone. Easy face. I appreciated it more than I would ever admit.

Ava’s gaze skimmed over me once. Quick. Clinical.

“How was Dalton?” she asked.

Not the game.

Dalton.

Like the campus had become a loaded word.

I set the folder on the desk and kept my face neutral. “Productive. I got what I needed.”

Ethan glanced up from his monitor. “You left your extra battery pack in the back seat, by the way.”

“Seriously?”

He held it up. “I rescued it before it became part of your car permanently.”

Ava’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You drove back that same night, right?”

The room got quieter without anyone stopping what they were doing.

Ethan set the battery down. “Yeah.”

“Long drive,” Ava said.

“It was fine.”

Her eyes flicked to me. “And you stayed the weekend?”

Professional on the surface. Needle underneath.

“Yes,” I said. “Coverage.”

Ava tucked the pencil tighter behind her ear. “That’s commitment.”

“It’s the assignment.”

A beat.

Ethan said lightly, “And worth it. Her notebook looked like it survived a war by the second period.”

Nora laughed. The tension cracked just enough for everyone to pretend it was gone.

Ava looked back at the layout. “Good. As long as the war turns into copy by deadline.”

On paper, the moment ended.

In reality it lived under my skin all day.

Because Ethan hadn’t asked what happened after he left.

Because Ava had, in her polished way, made it clear she knew there had been an after.

And because I was editor-in-chief of a newspaper while living the single worst secret for someone who claimed to care about credibility.

---

TWO WEEKS LATER

By Wednesday, Thanksgiving break was three classes and one assembly away, and the whole building had surrendered.

People were already leaving early. Teachers were assigning “light optional reading.” The weather turned ugly around noon—wind, then cold rain needling the windows. By sixth period the parking lot lights were on and Mr. Castillo dismissed journalism ten minutes early because “none of you are editing while dreaming about pie.”

I was packing my bag when Ethan came over.

“Need help carrying anything?”

“No. I’m good.”

He eyed my satchel, folder, and stack of press packets. “You sure?”

“I’m not moving countries, Ethan.”

He smiled. “You say that now.”

From the managing editor desk, Ava looked up exactly when his smile landed.

There it was again—that tiny cooling.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for me.

“I’ll see you after break,” Ethan said.

“Yeah. Have a good Thanksgiving.”

“You too.”

Ava caught me before I reached the door.

“Winters.”

I turned.

She stood by the layout table, hands resting lightly on the edge, every inch composed.

“I updated the budget draft. It’s in your drive folder.” A pause. “And the student-athlete mental health piece is locked. Final proof Sunday.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

Her gaze held mine a second too long.

Then, evenly: “Safe drive.”

Not have a good break.

Safe drive.

As if she knew the road I was actually on.

“Thanks,” I said, and left before anyone could ask anything else.

---

The parking lot looked like a wet charcoal sketch.

Rain hissed across the asphalt. Kids in hoodies sprinted toward rides and tired sedans. Brake lights smeared red across the slick ground.

I reached my car, hit unlock, slid into the driver’s seat, and turned the key.

Nothing.

Not even a pathetic cough. Just dead silence and the soft click of betrayal.

“Seriously?” I muttered, trying again.

Still nothing.

My phone buzzed.

I grabbed my phone and texted Dad.

ME: My car won’t start.

He answered a minute later.

DAD: Chase is on his way

WHAT?!

A horn beeped once.

I looked up.

Chase’s Bentley sat at the curb under the awning, wipers sweeping steadily across the windshield. He was behind the wheel in a dark hoodie and baseball cap, one forearm hooked over the steering wheel like this was the most normal thing in the world.

For one full second I just stood there in the rain-damp air.

Then the passenger window rolled down.

“You getting in,” he called, “or are you planning to stage a protest under the awning?”

I walked over, stopping beside the open window.

“You’re fast,” I said.

He lifted one brow. “You sound disappointed.”

“I sound surprised.”

“Your dad said your car won't start. Victoria said not to let you walk home in this.” He glanced at the rain. “So here I am.”

There it was again, that dangerous, quiet honesty he kept pulling out when I least expected it.

The passenger door unlocked with a soft click.

“You can keep standing there if you want,” he said, “but it’s not making the rain sexier.”

I got in.

The cabin was warm. It smelled like leather, pine, and him. I shut the door and my pulse went stupid.

“Seat belt,” he said.

“I know how cars work.”

“That’s twice this week you’ve claimed to know how things work.”

I clicked it harder than necessary. “Drive.”

He smiled to himself and pulled away.

The heater hummed low. The radio was almost off—just soft guitar under the wipers. Rain turned the world gray and blurred.

Inside the car it was too close.

My bag by my feet.

His hockey duffel in the back.

Two coffees in the console, one already half gone.

And him.

One hand on the wheel. The other loose beside the gear shift. Knuckles healing. Dark stubble. That little muscle ticking in his jaw every time he tried not to say something.

I looked out the window and told myself to act normal.

Impossible.

Normal people didn’t sit in their stepbrother’s Bentley the Wednesday before Thanksgiving pretending they hadn’t spent the last two weeks thinking about each other in ways that were becoming unmanageable.

I folded my hands. Unfolded them. Reached for the coffee just to have something to do.

He noticed immediately.

“You can relax,” he said, eyes on the road.

“I am relaxed.”

“You look like you’re preparing for a hostage negotiation.”

“Maybe I am.”

“With me?”

“With the next four days.”

Rain hissed under the tires. The school disappeared behind us.

After a minute he asked, “How was school?”

The plainness of it caught me off guard.

“Tolerable,” I said. “The building gave up around noon.”

He glanced over. “Dalton gave up Monday.”

"You’re officially done now.”

“Officially after my last class.” He shifted his hand on the wheel. “Unofficially, I checked out sometime during econ.”

“That’s brave of you to admit as a student-athlete.”

“That’s brave of you to judge after telling me economics is fake math for men with bad morals.”

I turned to him. “I did not say that.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I said it was fake certainty for people who need spreadsheets to justify greed.”

He laughed—quiet, real, warming the car more than the heater.

“There it is,” he said.

“What?”

“You. Thought the rain might’ve drowned you.”

I rolled my eyes and took a sip of coffee so I wouldn’t stare at that low, relieved laugh too long.

The highway opened up. Traffic thinned. Headlights stretched in wet ribbons.

Inside the car everything felt sealed off—warm, restrained, and far too aware of the space between us.

His hand left the gear shift and rested on the console.

Not touching mine.

Just there. An option.

I stared at it for three full seconds before looking away.

Coward.

“You left fast after the game,” he said.

I could hear the real question underneath.

“I had to get out of there.”

“Because of me?”

“That seems vain.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re dodging.”

“So are you.”

I set the coffee back and pulled my coat tighter even though I wasn’t cold.

“Did Ethan drive you back Sunday?” he asked.

There it was.

I turned slowly. “You know he did.”

“Wanted to hear you say it.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

The heater hummed. Rain kept falling. The city gave way to familiar landmarks.

Home crept closer in small, ordinary signs.

And with it, the thing we were both circling.

“When we get there…” he started.

I looked over.

He kept his eyes on the road. “We’re back to the usual.”

“The usual,” I repeated.

He nodded once. “Barely tolerate each other. Little digs. Nothing suspicious.”

“Nothing suspicious,” I echoed, because repeating it made it feel slightly less awful.

“Family everywhere tomorrow. Relatives, neighbors, too much food, too many eyes.” He exhaled. “We can’t be stupid.”

A beat.

Then, because the rain and the car and the fact that he’d come for me had made me softer than usual, I asked quietly, “Do you want to be?”

He looked at me then.

Really looked.

The kind of look that would have felt indecent even without the warm, dim, too-close space.

“Yes,” he said.

Just that.

No jokes. No armor.

Just yes.

I had to look away first.

By the time we pulled into the driveway my pulse was in my throat and my coffee had gone cold.

The house glowed from every window—warm gold against the gray. Through the kitchen I could see Victoria moving between stove and island, Dad opening the oven, the whole place wrapped in that perfect domestic holiday energy that should have felt safe.

Instead it felt like stepping onto a stage mid-performance with all the lines memorized and none of the feelings under control.

Chase killed the engine.

For one suspended second neither of us moved.

Then he unbuckled. “Ready?”

“No.”

His mouth twitched. “Good. You’re honest again.”

He got out.

By the time I came around the hood with my bag over my shoulder, he was already pulling my things from the trunk like this was the most normal favor in the world. The rain had thinned to mist. Cold bit at the backs of my hands.

“I can get it,” I said.

“I know.”

He still didn’t hand it over.

We walked to the front door side by side.

At the porch he stopped.

Turned.

Looked at me under the weak yellow light.

Rain clung to his lashes.

I hated that I noticed.

He leaned in—just enough that his voice dropped into the narrow space between us.

“Whatever happens in there,” he said quietly, “don’t ruin it with your tells.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Your tells.” He smiled—slow, dangerous, familiar. “You’ve gotten better at hiding them. Not good enough.”

Heat rushed up my neck. “I do not have tells.”

“You look at me like I’m a secret you’re already writing badly.”

My breath caught.

The porch light buzzed.

Inside, a timer went off in the kitchen.

I straightened my spine. “Play nice, Hartley.”

“Always do.”

“That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard.”

He opened the front door.

Warmth and noise rushed out.

Victoria turned, dish towel in hand, face lighting up. “There you are!”

Dad looked up from the pie he was pretending to help with. “Finally. Traffic?”

“Rain,” Chase said easily, already sliding back into that careful, familiar version of himself. “School lot was chaos.”

I shrugged off my coat and handed it to Victoria, trying not to think about how ten seconds ago he’d looked at me like he wanted to drag me back into the car and ruin my lipstick.

“Hi, honey,” Victoria said, kissing my cheek. “Soup’s on the stove. Your room’s made up. And yes, I bought extra cranberry sauce because this family treats it like a controlled substance.”

Dad squeezed my shoulder. “Good week?”

“Long week.”

“That means yes,” he said.

Chase was already heading for the fridge like he hadn’t spent the entire drive turning my insides into abstract art.

I watched him one beat too long.

He opened the fridge, stared inside, and called over his shoulder, “Why is there six pounds of celery in here?”

Victoria gasped. “For the stuffing.”

He held up two whole bags. “That stuffing is going to have opinions.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

Everyone looked at me.

I froze.

Chase turned slowly, one brow lifting in that almost-smirk that made me want to throw something sharp at him.

Victoria smiled, relieved. “See? I knew the two of you would settle down eventually.”

“Settle down,” I repeated faintly.

Dad pointed the pie knife at us. “Holiday miracle.”

Chase shut the fridge with his hip and leaned back against it, all lazy ease and infuriating composure. “Don’t get used to it. She still hates me.”

I met his gaze across the kitchen.

Held it.

Then said, perfectly even, “You make that very easy.”

Victoria sighed like this was charming.

Dad laughed.

And just like that, the roles slipped back on.

The safe ones. The old rhythm with edges instead of confessions.

Chase reached for an apple from the bowl.

I took a sip of water I didn’t need.

The kitchen smelled like onions, thyme, and rain drying off coats.

Thanksgiving break had officially begun.

And if the first ten minutes were any indication, surviving it was going to take more discipline than I had left.

Across the room Chase bit into the apple and looked at me over the rim like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

Then, without a word, he smiled.

Small.

Private.

Only for me.

And I understood, with terrible clarity, that the ride home had been the easy part.