"You're unbelievable," she hisses. "Two weeks ago, you were all over me and now?”

I lean my head back against the seat, "I don't think this arrangement is working out anymore."

"Are you breaking up with me over the phone?" Her voice cracks slightly.

"Farrah, listen—" I start, rubbing my temples.

"No. Fuck you, Nate."

The line goes dead.

"That girl is batshit crazy. I don’t know why the fuck you’re putting up with her still.” Jay says, shooting me a sideways glance as he turns the corner.

The honest answer is, I have no fucking clue either. I just toss my phone onto the dashboard and sink deeper into the seat.

I’m home for less than two minutes before I grab my keys and head out. The road stretches out before me, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the fading afternoon light. Time passes and each song ticks over into the next one before I realise I’ve been driving aimlessly. My mind a tangled fucking mess of thoughts about the way one girl seems to be haunting every corner of my consciousness, even when I'm trying to escape her.

Cary Brothers' "Ride" plays softly, its melancholic melody a perfect soundtrack to my current state of mind. The irony isn't lost on me—the song's themes of longing and uncertainty mirroring my own internal chaos. I'm not even sure why I'm driving, only that movement feels like the only way to quiet the noise in my head.

And then—because life has a cruel sense of fucked up humor—there she is.

Nora, walking alongside her bike, looking both determined and vulnerable. The universe seems to be laughing, dropping her directly into my path when I'm least prepared to handle it.

I pull up beside her, rolling down the window. "What are you doing?"

She yanks out her earphones, startled. "Jesus Christ! You scared the shit out of me, Nate.” Her eyes narrow. "What are you doing here?"

"I was heading home. Get in."

"No, thanks. I'm good."

"Nora, just get in the car."

"I don't need a ride. I've got my bike."

I get out of the car.

"I'm not letting you walk home alone. Just toss the bike in the back."

"Thanks, but no." She starts walking, chin lifted.

"Why do you have to make everything so difficult?"

She whirls to face me. "I'm not the one making things difficult. You're the one who refuses to listen when I say I'm fine walking."

"What's your problem?"

"My problem?" She laughs sharply. "You, Nate. You're my problem. This hot and cold game you play is getting old." She steps closer, lavender and vanilla filling the space between us. "I'm fine on my own. I don't need you saving me every five seconds, okay?"

"You're right." The words come out softer than intended. "You don't need anyone saving you. But that doesn't mean I can't look out for you. Please, just let me drive you home."