Chapter 9 Midnight Drive

Stella's POV

For a long moment, neither of us moved. I stayed frozen on top of him, my hands pressed against his chest, his arms still wrapped around me. The concrete was cold beneath us, but all I could feel was the heat radiating from his body and the steady thump of his heart under my palms.

His eyes were too clear. Too focused. There was no trace of drunkenness in his gaze—just sharp awareness and something darker.

"You're not drunk, are you?" My voice came out barely above a whisper. "Just now, when you looked at me—"

Before I could finish, he sucked in a sharp breath, his face twisting with pain. His hand flew to his lower back where he'd hit the concrete, and a low groan escaped his throat.

"Fuck," he hissed.

I froze. Is he faking this too?

But the way his body had gone rigid beneath me, the way his breath had caught—that wasn't something you could fake.

"Your back," I said, the suspicion draining away. "You hit it hard."

"I'm fine." But his voice was strained.

I wanted to press him about the drinking, but looking down at him—at the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on my jacket—I couldn't.

"We need to get you home," I said quietly.

He let me go, and I scrambled to my feet. The loss of his warmth hit me immediately—the night air felt twice as cold.

I held out my hand. He stared at it for a moment, then took it and let me help pull him up. He was heavy, all solid muscle and height, and when he was finally standing, he swayed slightly.

"Easy," I said, ducking under his arm. "Lean on me."

We made our way toward his car, each step slow and careful. I could feel every breath he took, feel the way his muscles tensed when he moved wrong.

He'd twisted mid-fall. Made sure he hit the ground first.

We reached the passenger side and I got the door open, helping him into the seat. He sank into the leather with a barely audible sigh.

"Seatbelt," I said, reaching across him.

Big mistake.

The moment I leaned in, I was surrounded by him—his scent, his heat, the sound of his breathing. My hands fumbled with the belt, and I was acutely aware of how close my face was to his.

His hand caught my wrist.

I froze. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, his thumb pressed right over my pulse point where it was racing out of control.

"Stay with me," he said, his voice low and rough. "Please."

His thumb moved against my wrist, a slow stroke that sent electricity up my arm.

"Ethan—"

"Just tonight." His eyes were half-closed now. "Don't leave."

Then his hand went slack, sliding away, and he slumped back like he'd passed out.

I jerked backward, my face burning. My hands were shaking as I finally got his seatbelt clicked.

He's drunk. He doesn't know what he's saying.

I slammed the passenger door and walked around to the driver's side on legs that felt like jelly.

The dashboard lit up when I pressed the start button. I'd gotten my license three years ago after failing the parallel parking test twice. Since then, I'd driven exactly four times—all in broad daylight, all in Lucy's beat-up Honda.

This was different. This was midnight in a city I barely knew, in a car that probably cost more than my entire college tuition.

The horn blared when I accidentally hit it while adjusting the seat. I glanced at Ethan, terrified I'd woken him, but he just frowned slightly without opening his eyes.

I took a shaky breath and put the car in drive, nearly clipping a concrete pillar as I guided it out of the parking spot.

"Shit, shit, shit," I muttered, jerking the wheel.

We made it onto the street. I accelerated slowly, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.

I was so focused on not crashing that I didn't notice Ethan's hand until it was covering mine on the wheel.

"Relax," he murmured, his eyes still closed. "You're doing fine."

His palm was burning against the back of my hand, and suddenly I couldn't breathe.

"I've got you," he said softly, his thumb tracing along my knuckles.

Headlights flooded my rearview mirror. A black SUV pulled up right on my bumper, horn blaring repeatedly.

Ethan's hand tightened on mine. His eyes opened—sharp and clear—and for a second, I saw something dangerous flash across his face.

"Ignore him," he said, his voice hard. Then, softer: "You're safe. I'm right here."

His eyes closed again, and I wondered if I'd imagined that moment of clarity.

The SUV swerved around us, the driver flipping me off and shouting "Learn to drive!"

A car coming toward us flashed its high beams. Then another.

What the hell?

Then it hit me. The headlights.

"Fuck," I breathed, my eyes darting to the dashboard.

The car drifted slightly, and Ethan's hand moved—fast and sure—guiding the wheel back straight.

"Left side," he murmured. "Twist the dial."

I found it and twisted, and the road ahead lit up.

Ethan's hand slipped away, and when I glanced at him, he was slumped against the seat, the corner of his mouth curved in what might have been a smile.

He's been awake this whole time.

I made it through the next intersection, my confidence growing slightly.

Then I saw the red light too late.

My foot slammed on the brake, but not fast enough. The car lurched forward into the intersection just as another vehicle—a beat-up sedan—came barreling through from the right.

I yanked the wheel hard. The sedan swerved. Metal scraped against metal with a horrible screech that made my teeth ache.

The car spun slightly before coming to a stop. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

"Ethan—" I turned to him, but he was still slumped in his seat, eyes closed, looking completely out of it.

The other car had stopped a few feet away. The driver's door flew open, and a man climbed out—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a stained tank top despite the cold.

He stormed toward my window, and I could hear him shouting before he even reached the car.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"