Chapter 9 Chloe
Chloe
I don’t know what’s worse—the storm outside or the one inside me.
Rain slams against the windshield, harder and harder until the world beyond the glass is nothing but blurry gray streaks, but all I can focus on is the boy sitting behind the wheel.
Miles Thatcher.
Miles fucking Thatcher.
I’ve barely known him for more than a couple of days—only glimpses, really, the way you catch sight of a comet in the night sky and know it’s rare, something you’re lucky to see once.
Now I’m in his car, sitting beside him, soaking wet in my tank top and skirt with my bra completely visible, and I cannot get my lungs to behave.
He’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.
His hands are huge, veins raised, the knuckles looking bruised as if he spends too much time fighting.
His gray eyes are lit faintly by the dash, shifting from the rain to the crawling traffic.
They’re so goddamn mesmerizing it’s unfair.
And then there’s the scar—not deep, but sharp enough to make him look even rougher, like a line carved just to remind you that he’s been through hell and survived.
And he’s here. Driving me home.
No, not even driving. Stuck with me in traffic. A rainstorm locking us in together, giving me too much time to notice everything about him, every detail I should not be staring at.
I feel my eyes drifting again, tracing the hard set of his jaw, the sharp line of his profile. And then—shit—he turns, catches me.
I snap my gaze to the rain-smeared glass, cheeks burning.
I tug my tank down, like that’ll fix anything.
“So…” I start, just as his low voice breaks the silence.
We speak at the same time, words colliding.
“Sorry,” I blurt, heat crawling up my neck. “You go first.”
He nods, expression unreadable, then clears his throat. “How are you liking Pointe University so far?”
The question surprises me. It’s so normal, so casual, I almost forget how hard my pulse is racing.
“It’s good,” I say, twisting my damp hair over my shoulder.
“There are more students than my other school, but everyone’s been really nice.
My old school didn’t even have hockey, but I was a cheerleader in high school, so… I might join here.”
A sound rumbles from his chest. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a comment. More like a grunt, short and dismissive.
I fumble. “Do you… like hockey?”
Oh my God. Lame. Lame. Lame. Of all the things to ask him, I go for the most obvious one. I want to curl into the seat and disappear.
He scratches his jaw, eyes flicking to mine, then back to the windshield. “Sometimes,” he says. His voice is low, rough. “It’s good. Helps with a lot.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and before I can figure out how to ask, he leans on the horn, the sharp sound cutting through the muffled patter of rain.
I flinch slightly, pressing my knees together.
I scramble for something else to say, something to ground me. “So… how do I get my car back? Once it’s fixed, I mean.”
“The garage will call you,” he says, his gaze focused forward. “Or you can pay to have it delivered to school.”
“Oh. Okay.” I nod, chewing the inside of my cheek. My stomach feels like it’s full of bees.
And then the worst possible thing happens.
A sound rips out, loud enough to echo in the small space.
My stomach. Growling.
I freeze, mortified, heat flooding my face.
Miles glances at me. Down, then up again. His gaze lingers too long on my thighs before finally meeting my eyes.
“You’re hungry?” he asks, voice deep and steady.
“Kind of,” I admit, rushing the words out. “I was so busy with classes I didn’t really eat lunch. Well, I had a soda, but that doesn’t really count. I’ll definitely grab a pizza when I get home though.”
I want to sink into the floor. I’m rambling. I can hear myself rambling and I can’t stop.
But then he smiles.
It’s small, almost like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. But it’s there.
And I’m floored.
My chest feels like it’s been carved open, light spilling through. I have no idea what I said that was funny or worthy of that expression, but I want to see it again. I want to know what makes him do that.
“With this rain,” he says, eyes narrowing toward the windshield, “it’ll be harder to get anything delivered.”
He rolls his window down an inch. Rain sneaks in, spraying against his arm. He leans closer, peers out. “This rain will not fucking let up.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, reaching up to twist my hair into a bun. My fingers work quickly, tying the strands back just so it’ll start drying instead of clinging to my neck.
“Can I use your charger?” I ask, fishing my dead phone from my pocket. “Just for a little bit. My phone’s dead.”
“No.” The word is blunt, final.
I blink. “Oh. Sorry.”
“If you plug it in, it’ll drain the car battery.”
“Oh. Okay.” I tuck the phone back into my pocket, biting the inside of my lip.
“You have a nice car,” I say, because silence feels like it might crush me.
He doesn’t look at me right away, but I see something shift in him. “It’s a 1969 Chevrolet Impala.”
And just like that, his voice changes. He talks differently, his whole face almost lighting as he starts explaining—about the engine, the body, the history, why he keeps it running the way he does.
I watch him, amazed. It’s like he transforms when he talks about it, suddenly alive in a way that makes him seem younger, more open.
But then, as if he realizes he’s revealed too much, he scratches his jaw, embarrassment flickering across his face. “Your car’s good too,” he adds quickly. “If you take care of it.”
“I don’t know much about cars,” I confess. My throat tightens before I can stop it. “After I lost my dream car, I just… didn’t care.”
“What kind of car?” he asks.
Red Audi. The color flashes in my mind. My red Audi that I was driving at the end of senior year of high school when I was taken. The car that was supposed to be freedom but became a cage. The memory grips me so tight my stomach sours.
“It was red,” I say quietly. And then I force a smile, shifting the subject before the weight can drown me. “Anyway. Doesn’t matter now.”
He glances at me. Long. Silent. Like he sees something I don’t want him to.
Then he looks back at the road. “We’ll be stuck here three more hours if we wait this out.”
My brows lift. “Really?”
He nods. “I know another route.”
“Okay.”
His hand tightens on the wheel. “Do you trust me?”
The question hits harder than I expect. My chest stutters.
I force a laugh. “You wouldn’t kidnap me or anything, right.” I pray he doesn’t hear the thin strand of seriousness tangled in the joke.
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smile. His jaw just clenches, muscle ticking.
Then, with a smooth, precise turn, he maneuvers the car out of the line, leaving the bridge behind.
And I sit there, in awe, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
The wipers thump back and forth, struggling against the rain, but Miles drives like he knows exactly where he’s going.
His hands rest steady on the wheel, and I can’t stop sneaking glances at them, those huge knuckles bruised, his fingers curling like they’re meant to crush something.
I sit there, aware of every breath I take, every shift in my damp clothes, the tank top clinging to me even though the heater is finally warming the car.
We merge onto the highway, the road a stretch of slick black lit by glowing white headlights. The traffic thins, the storm less vicious here. He leans back in his seat a little, jaw flexing as his eyes look forward.
“We’ll take a quick stop,” he says finally, his voice low, almost swallowed by the sound of the tires on wet asphalt. “The drive that way will take twenty minutes.”
“Okay,” I nod quickly, trying not to sound too eager just to hear him talk.
The silence stretches again, thick enough that I hear my pulse in my ears. My fingers twitch, restless. “Do you… have the radio?”
He jerks his chin toward the dashboard. “Radio’s there. Turn it on.”
I lean forward, fumbling with the buttons. The knobs are stiff, and I’m so aware of him watching me out of the corner of his eye that my fingers slip.
“Here,” he mutters, reaching over.
His hand brushes mine. Just a graze.
But the zing that shoots up my arm is instant, electric, sparking down my spine and straight into my stomach. My lungs catch. I’m fucking gone. My whole body lights up like someone struck a match under my skin.
Oh God. I have to be ovulating or something. That’s the only explanation for how my body reacts, overreacts, to this boy.
The radio crackles, fuzzy at first, before a familiar voice breaks through, all polished pop vocals and a steady beat.
“…I’m still a believer, but I don’t know why…”
I smile before I can stop myself, sinking back into the seat, letting the melody soften the jagged edges of my nerves.
We drive in silence, the music filling the air. After a few minutes, he scoffs quietly, shaking his head.
I turn, frowning. “What?”
“You’ve been humming along to every song,” he says, glancing at me, his lips twitching like he’s holding back something. “How often do you listen to the radio?”
Heat creeps up my neck, but I grin anyway. “A lot. I like music. It calms me down.”
His eyes flick back to the road. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I nod, tucking a strand of wet hair behind my ear. “It’s like… no matter how messy the world is, music makes it make sense.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, just presses his mouth into a flat line, like he’s chewing on the thought. Finally, he exhales. “For me, it’s hockey.”
And that’s it. Short, clipped. But I can hear the weight under it. Hockey isn’t just a game for him, it’s important to him.
The silence settles back in, though it doesn’t feel so heavy now.
When we finally pull off the highway, I notice the neon glow first. A flickering sign with blocky letters. Sammie’s. The parking lot is half full, rain dripping off the awning over the door.
He eases into a space, shuts the engine off.