“You can slap me once a day for a year,” he offered solemnly. “Right across the face. Open palm. And I’ll even let you pick the worst Spice Girl and call me that for the rest of my life.”

“Posh,” I muttered, mouth full. He made a face.

“You can get up now,” I said, taking pity on him.

He blinked up at me. “Are you sure? I was kind of hoping to stay down here and wallow in my shame for a bit longer. And I was kind of settling in down here. Thinking of making it my new home. I feel like this is where I belong.”

“Blake,” I said flatly, popping a strawberry into my mouth.

He sighed but pushed himself up, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. “Fine, fine,” he muttered. “You’re too kind.”

“I think you’ve suffered enough. For now.”

“You ready?” he asked after a few minutes of shared silence, brushing crumbs off the blanket. “We should head out soon.”

I nodded, setting the tray aside. When I’d finally gotten dressed and grabbed my bag, he tossed me the car keys.

I caught them mid-air, brows raised. “You’re letting me drive?”

“If I drive, I have to focus on the road,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And if I’m focused on the road, I can’t watch you.”

God help me, I blushed.

* * *

I slid behind the wheel and adjusted the seat like I owned the car. Blake didn’t even complain when I moved the mirrors or played with the radio. He leaned back and watched me like I was made of magic and he was trying not to blink.

We drove out of San Francisco with the windows down, the sun already warming the dashboard, and music humming low on the radio. Blake rested one hand on the edge of the open window, the other occasionally brushing mine as I shifted.

He brought mixtapes, labeled in his handwriting with titles like “Songs for Punching the Dashboard” and “If You Don’t Cry By Track Four, You’re Broken.”

I remembered how much I missed this. Not just Blake—though, yes, obviously, that was part of it—but this…feeling.

“You’re a decent driver,” he said after ten minutes, watching me from the corner of his eye. “Bit aggressive on the turns⁠—”

“And you’re a terrible passenger,” I lied.

“I’m the best passenger. I’m calm. Chill. I bring snacks.”

“You bring terrible snacks.”

“Take that back. Cheddar popcorn is top-tier.”

I glanced over at him. “You’ve changed,” I blurted out.

He didn’t respond right away.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost like he was hesitant to let the words leave his mouth. “You haven’t.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.