Rhett drove us through the quiet streets without saying much. The city lights glowed softly through the windshield, reflecting off his sharp profile in streaks of gold and white. His hands rested loosely on the steering wheel, the veins on his arms flexing each time he turned. I hadn't realized how tense I'd been until the silence started to feel almost comforting.
I let out a slow breath I didn't know I'd been holding. My shoulders dropped an inch. My fingers uncurled from where they'd been digging into my thighs. I hadn't noticed any of it until this moment — the quiet of the car, the warmth of the heater blowing against my cold fingers, the steady rhythm of the tires on the wet road. It all wrapped around me like a blanket I didn't know I needed.
He hadn't changed much. Maybe a little broader in the shoulders. Maybe a little calmer in the way he held himself. But still Rhett. Still the same boy who u had grown up with. The one who made me spill a soda on myself because of how funny he was.
I remembered that day perfectly. We'd been seventeen, sitting on the floor of his parents' restaurant after closing time. The lights were off except for the red glow of the EXIT sign. The chairs were stacked upside down on the tables. He'd stolen a bottle of soda from the fridge — borrowed, he called it — and we were supposed to be sharing it, but I'd taken too big of a gulp and it had gone everywhere.
Down my chin, down my neck, soaking into the front of my white t-shirt.
You're a disaster, he'd said, already pulling his sleeve over his hand.
It's your fault, I'd shot back, soda dripping off my jaw.
And he'd laughed and dabbed at my shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world. His knuckles brushed my chest through the thin fabric. I'd frozen. He hadn't seemed to notice.
Or maybe he had. Maybe he'd frozen too. I'd never asked.
I watched him from the corner of my eye, trying not to be obvious about it. The way the streetlights painted shadows across his face — light, dark, light, dark — like a flipbook of his profile. The way his jaw had finally unclenched now that we were away from the crowd and the cameras and the whispers. He looked less like the Ice Prince the media talked about and more like the boy I used to know.
The boy who used to throw snowballs at my window at 6 AM just to watch me groan and threaten to kill him.
The boy who held my hand during my parents' anniversary party when I was fifteen and terrified of all those strangers in their expensive suits and fake smiles.
The boy who looked at me like I mattered. Like I was more than just the son of a wealthy businessman. Like I was just Teddy.
I wondered if he still looked at me that way. I was afraid to find out.
The car hummed beneath us. The heater made a soft ticking noise. Outside, the city gave way to quieter streets — residential now, with trees lining the sidewalks and houses tucked behind small front yards. I didn't recognize this part of town. I'd never been here before.
I realized, suddenly, that I knew almost nothing about his life now. I knew what the media reported — the games, the scores, the scandal. But I didn't know where he lived. I didn't know what he ate for breakfast. I didn't know if he still slept on the left side of the bed or if he'd finally switched to the right.
I didn't know him anymore.
And yet here I was, sitting in his car, letting him drive me somewhere I'd never been.
What am I doing