TWENTY-TWO. #2
I laugh again, lighter this time, and he starts the engine. He glances over his shoulder at the oncoming traffic, then pulls out smoothly, navigating us through the small airport’s maze of lanes.
We don’t speak the whole way to the highway. He turns the music on low—something soft and acoustic that fills the cab without demanding attention—and I watch the city of Knoxville gradually give way to open fields and rolling green as we merge onto Andrew Johnson Highway.
Red lights and passing cars blur past, businesses and gas stations sliding by in slow motion.
Life moves slower out here, and the longer we drive, the more my mind begins to clear.
The heaviness of the goodbye still lingers, but it’s quieter now.
And the longer we sit in this small, warm space, the more painfully aware I become of Tobias beside me.
Remembering how he said the next chance he gets—I’m his.
I steal a glance. His hand hangs open between us, muscles and veins standing out along his forearm all the way up to the sleeve of his shirt.
My eyes drift higher to the sharp line of his jaw, the straight slope of his nose, the fullness of his lips—and then back down to his hands.
I can’t help but imagine how they would feel against my body.
His gaze flicks toward me.
I look away fast, heat flooding my cheeks so fiercely I’m sure he can see the flush even from the corner of his eye.
I prop my elbow on the door’s armrest, rest my chin in my hand, and stare determinedly out the window at the passing fields.
But my stomach is already in knots, twisting with nerves and want.
This ride home is going to feel much longer than the ride here.
He clears his throat softly, shifting in his seat, and my leg jumps in response, nerves sparking as I chew the inside of my lip. All I can hear is Marissa’s words—we can’t be friends.
“What’re you thinking?” Tobias asks, voice low and curious.
I glance over with just my eyes, careful not to let my gaze linger too long, then shake my head. “Nothing.”
“You’re definitely thinking something.”
“Something Marissa said,” I mutter, barely loud enough for even myself to hear.
He shifts again, enough that his arm on the center console suddenly feels impossibly near. “Was it before or after all the laughing?”
I can’t help the wide smile that spreads across my face. I sit up straighter and press my back against the seat, turning my body forward again. Yeah. His hand is definitely closer now.
“Somewhere in the middle,” I say, and I steal another quick glance at his open palm resting between us before looking straight ahead.
“Hmm.” He closes his hand into a loose fist, then opens it in a quick motion before pressing his thumb against each fingertips. The small, controlled movement makes my pulse jump.
We roll to a stop at a red light, and the cab of the truck falls quiet—but it’s not empty silence.
It’s thick, heavy, charged with steam and tension that presses against my skin.
My lungs feel tight, like the air itself is holding its breath.
This has to be the longest red light in history.
When he swings his gaze to me and holds it—steady, unblinking—my lips part on a slow, heavy exhale.
“If this red light lasts any longer,” he starts, but right on cue, the light turns green.
I let out a soft chuckle, glancing over when he doesn’t immediately press the gas. He takes a deep breath, grips the steering wheel tighter, and the truck lurches forward. Knowing he wants me—knowing he knows I want him—turns me on more than it has any right to.
After that, we hit every green light in a row.
One after another, each one stretching the tension between us tighter, making the air feel thinner, hotter.
Every intersection we sail through feels like we’re daring the universe to slow us down again.
When we finally turn onto the dirt road that leads to both our houses, I shift in my seat, restless.
I’ve been waiting the whole drive for him to reach over, to touch me, to do something—anything—and the anticipation is slowly unraveling me.
I want his hands on me. I need them. And we’re getting too close to my driveway, too close to this ending without anything happening.
“If you pull into my driveway,” I say as the familiar turn approaches, “I will grab this steering wheel and veer us straight into the fields.”
He looks at me sharply. Without a word, he presses the gas harder, zooming past my house and straight toward his.
His hand reaches over at the same time, sliding down the outside of my thigh.
I press my head back against the seat cushion, breath catching hard as his fingers curl around the inside of my thigh, brushing deliberately against the part of me that’s been aching for him.
He turns into his driveway with sharp, practiced precision like he’s suddenly a pro racer, and shoves the truck into park before the engine even cuts off completely.
“Do not open that door,” he says, pointing at me as I reach for the seat belt.
I lean back and watch as he rounds the front of the truck in long strides, every line of his body taut with intent. When he yanks my door open, the cool outside air rushes in, but it does nothing to cool the heat rolling off him—or the way my pulse is thundering in my ears.