Page 33 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
Just resting there.
The contact is warm, his palm spanning the curve of my waist through the thin fabric of my top, my body reacting before my mind does, a sharp inhale catching in my throat.
Slowly, I turn my head toward him.
Up close, he looks different. The hard lines of his face are clearer, the faint pale scars along his temples visible beneath the low brim of his cap. His eyes are darker than I remembered at the table, flecks of green flashing in them when they catch the light.
They aren’t amused.
They aren’t teasing.
They’re focused.
For a second neither of us moves. My weight is still partly on him, my hand braced against his shoulder as I try to regain some sense of control over the situation.
His fingers press more firmly against my lower back, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me exactly where his hand is.
The heat of it spreads slowly, sinking into my spine in a way that feels far more dangerous than the chaos under the dinner table.
My gaze drops before I can stop it.
The movement is instinctive, but I know he notices. His eyes track it immediately, flicking from the scar along my cheek down to my mouth. Forcing my voice to work, I don’t allow the moment to stretch any further.
“Do you even have a license?” The question comes out sharper than intended, my breath still uneven.
Silas tilts his head slightly, like the question genuinely amuses him.
“Does it matter?” he replies, his voice calm in that infuriating way he seems to do everything. His hand leaves my back then, nudging me away from him just enough that I’m forced to shift my weight and climb off his lap. The loss of contact is immediate, like stepping away from a heat source you didn’t realize you were leaning into.
“Only becomes a problem if I get caught,” he adds, adjusting his seat.
Crossing my arms tightly over my chest, I step back onto the pavement, the house looming behind us, lights glowing through the windows where my parents are probably still cleaning up dinner. The normalcy of it makes the situation feel even more ridiculous.
“If I tell them,” I say, nodding toward the house, “they’ll make you stay home.”
The words are meant as a threat.
Silas just exhales through his nose like I’ve disappointed him.
“A narc and a goody-two-shoes,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I’ve got to say, I expected more from you.”
My foot taps against the asphalt as I stare at him, the frustration sitting hot in my chest.
“You can go ahead and rat me out if you want,” he continues, reaching for the steering wheel like the conversation is already over. “But I’ll remember it.”
He glances at me then, one brow lifting slightly.
“And I don’t think you want to be on my bad side.”
I try to hold my ground, to pretend the warning doesn’t land somewhere deeper than it should.
It does anyway.
The quiet confidence in his voice rattles me more than the words themselves.
The clock on the dashboard flips to6:49 pm.
Silas doesn’t rush me. He simply waits, one hand resting loosely on the wheel while the other taps lightly against the gearshift. The patience in the gesture feels calculated, like he knows exactly how few options I have.
