I narrowed my eyes, but the effect was lost considering I was quite literally in his arms. He reached the car, somehow maneuvering me while opening the passenger door, then lowered me down onto the seat with the same calculated ease. His hands lingered for half a second, like he was making sure I wasn’t about to crumple to the ground, before finally stepping back.

The sudden loss of warmth was worse than I wanted to admit.

I swallowed, shifting against the seat, not trusting myself to look at him.

He sighed and tapped his fingers against the open door. “You gonna buckle up or just sit there looking miserable?”

I shot him a glare but grabbed the seatbelt, yanking it across me. He smiled slightly, then shut the door. The car smelled like him—a scent that always made me feel as though I were stepping into a space that existed only for the two of us.

As Blake walked around to the driver’s side, I stared out the windshield, gripping the fabric of his hoodie like it might ground me. I shouldn’t feel like this. I shouldn’t want his hands on me. But last night was still on my skin. The way he held me, touched me, the way he looked at me—like I was something he wanted but knew he wasn’t supposed to have.

The driver’s side door opened, and he slid in, his presence filling the car like it always did.

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, staring straight ahead before finally glancing at me. “You good?” he asked.

No. “Yeah.”

He didn’t believe me. I could tell by the way he didn’t start the car right away, by the way his jaw tensed. His wrist—the one with my scrunchie still wrapped around it—twitched slightly.

Something about that stupid piece of fabric on him made my throat tighten. I reached out, my fingers brushing against his wrist. “Is that…”

Blake pulled his hand away before I could touch it, shifting his grip on the wheel. “Yeah.”

I wanted to say something. Anything.

Instead, Blake clicked his tongue, finally turned the key in the ignition, and muttered, “Let’s get you home, Beverly.”

And just like that, the moment—whatever it was—was gone.

He pulled out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift.

I huffed. “You don’t even like pink.”

“Guess I do now.”

“Since when do you wear it?”

“I don’t know.”

I knew that was a lie. Blake never forgot things.

I stared at him, trying to piece together what this meant—if it meant anything at all. Because it had to mean something, right? Boys don’t just steal hair ties and wear them for months for no reason.

“You were with Jamal today, weren’t you? Did you have a good workout? Was he being annoying?”