Chapter 2: Still A Problem

NOAH’S POV

I shouldn’t have come. That thought sat in my head the second she opened the door and slid into my car, dripping rainwater all over my seats like she hadn’t just walked straight out of my past and into my night.

I didn’t look at her cause I didn’t trust myself to. The door shut, sealing us into a space that suddenly felt too small and full of everything I’d spent years not thinking about.

I glanced down then exhaled slowly, already annoyed. “You’re getting water everywhere.”

It came out colder than I meant. Beside me, she stilled for a second.

“Sorry,” she muttered, brushing at the seat like that would somehow undo the damage. “Didn’t realize your car was allergic to rain.”

That same fucking mouth and attitude. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel trying not to let her get to me. “It’s not. I just don’t make a habit of letting people flood it.”

She ignored me. Good, that’s how exactly I wanted it to be. I reached forward, turning the dial without thinking. The heater kicked up and warm air filled the car, cutting through the damp chill clinging to everything including her.

I told myself it was for the car. For the fogging windows and not for her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hands. They were slightly curled into the sleeves of her hoodie. She was literally shaking.

I clenched my jaw and focused on the road. I didn’t look again or at least tried not to but I did notice another shiver coming from her and cursed myself for it.

“Seatbelt,” I commanded.

A soft click followed.

“Thanks for the ride, by the way.” she added quietly.

Like we were friends and she hadn’t once known exactly how to ruin me with a single sentence.

“Don’t thank me,” I gritted out. “I told Ethan not to call me.”

“I figured and you probably were his last choice.”

The rain got heavier hammering against the windshield. The wipers dragged back and forth not nearly enough to drown out the tension sitting between us. I kept my eyes forward and swore never to glance at her again but of course, that promise did not last.

“For fuck’s sake,” I swore. “You couldn’t wait inside somewhere?”

“There wasn’t anywhere open,” she shot back. “And I didn’t exactly plan to get stranded but thanks a lot for your concern.”

I let out a string of profanities and reached into the backseat without thinking, grabbing the first thing my hand landed on.

My jacket.

I held it out toward her without looking.

“Take it.”

There was a pause.

“I’m fine and don’t need your damn jacket!”

I finally glanced at her. Her lips were slightly pale and her fingers were curled tighter into her sleeves. She was still stubborn .

Still pretending.

I scoffed. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” I cut in. “Just take the damn jacket.”

Her eyes flicked to mine.

Something passed between us.

Old. Familiar. Too close to something I didn’t want to name.

For a second, I thought she’d argue again.

Then she reached out and took it.

“Thanks,” she said, softer this time.

I looked away immediately.

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You always do.”

Her grip tightened slightly on the jacket, but she didn’t respond.

Good.

The heater hummed louder, warm air finally starting to cut through the cold that had followed her into the car.

I shouldn’t have noticed.

But I did.

The way she relaxed just slightly.

The way her shoulders dropped.

The way she pulled the jacket around herself like she remembered what it felt like to wear my things.

I clenched my jaw and focused on the road harder.

This was a mistake.

All of it.

I shouldn’t have come.

Should’ve sent someone else.

Should’ve—

I glanced at her again.

Another mistake.

Her hair was still damp, strands sticking to her face. She pushed them back absently, fingers brushing her cheek, and something about the motion hit too close to memory.

Too familiar.

Too easy.

I dragged my eyes back to the road.

“You’re staring,” she said quietly.

I let out a short breath. “Trust me. I’m not.”

“Right.”

That tone again.

Like she didn’t believe me.

Like she remembered things I didn’t want her remembering.

We hit a red light.

The car slowed to a stop.

Silence pressed in, heavier now, stretched thin between everything we weren’t saying.

I shouldn’t have asked.

I knew I shouldn’t.

But I did anyway.

“Why are you back?”

Her head turned slightly.

“School,” she said after a second. “Same as everyone else.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah? That the story you’re going with?”

Her brows pulled together. “It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”

I turned my head, meeting her gaze fully now.

“Funny,” I said, voice low. “Because last time I checked, you weren’t big on that.”

The words landed.

I saw it.

That quick flicker in her expression.

Hurt.

Gone just as fast.

Good.

She should feel something.

“Noah,” she said, more carefully now, “I didn’t come back for you.”

Something in my chest tightened hard.

“Good,” I shot back. “Because that would’ve been a mistake.”

The light turned green.

I drove.

Faster than necessary.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was loaded.

Every second of it.

“Ethan said you’re captain now,” she said after a while, like she was trying to shift things somewhere safer.

I almost laughed.

“There’s nothing safe about this,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said, sharper. “Yeah. I am.”

“Congrats.”

I shook my head slightly. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you care.”

Her breath caught, just slightly.

“I didn’t say I didn’t.”

I tightened my grip on the wheel. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Why are you like this?” she asked, frustration slipping through now. “I’m just trying to—”

“To what?” I cut in. “Pretend we’re okay?”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “God, you’re still the same.”

That hit.

Harder than it should’ve.

I pulled up outside her building, braking a little too sharply.

“Yeah?” I said, turning toward her. “And what exactly does that make you?”

Her eyes flashed.

“Someone who didn’t hurt you on purpose.”

The words knocked something loose in my chest.

For half a second—

I almost believed her.

Then everything else came rushing back.

“Right,” I said, voice dropping. “You just did it anyway.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Final.

She looked away first, fingers tightening around my jacket like she needed something to hold onto.

“I should go,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” I replied. “You should.”

She reached for the door.

Paused.

Just for a second.

Then opened it.

Cold air rushed in again, rain hitting harder, louder.

She stepped out—

And my chest tightened.

Same way it did the first time she walked away.

No explanation.

No warning.

Just gone.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I heard myself say.

She froze.

Back to me.

Rain soaking her all over again.

“Tell you what?” she asked slowly.

I shook my head. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you don’t know.”

She turned then.

Really turned.

And this time, there was no distance in it.

No pretending.

“I didn’t tell you,” she said, voice steady even though something in it cracked, “because it wasn’t mine to tell.”

That hit wrong.

Or maybe too right.

I didn’t know.

Didn’t want to.

“Yeah,” I said, leaning back slightly. “That sounds like you.”

Something broke across her face.

Fast. Sharp.

Gone.

“Goodnight, Noah.”

She stepped back, closing the door.

And just like that—

She was outside again.

In the rain.

Alone.

I sat there, staring ahead, the heater still running, her warmth still in the car, my jacket still wrapped around her like I hadn’t just handed her something I shouldn’t have.

My phone buzzed.

Ethan.

I ignored it.

Because for the first time in years—

I didn’t feel as sure as I used to.

And that—

That was the problem.

Outside, she didn’t move right away.

Just stood there for a second.

Then she looked back.

Right at me.

Like she could feel it.

Like she knew I was still watching.

My hand tightened on the steering wheel.

For a second—

I almost got out.

Almost called her back.

Almost asked the question I should’ve asked years ago.

But I didn’t.

I stayed exactly where I was.

Because the second I stepped out of this car—

Everything I’d locked down, buried, controlled—

Would be gone.

And the worst part?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop it anymore.