Connection | 18+

OLIVIA:

   The silence in the car is unbearable.

   Not the kind that lingers comfortably between two people. No, this is something else entirely—suffocating, charged, a weight pressing against my chest with every goddamn second that passes.

   I shift in my seat, arms crossed over Ethan’s hoodie—the one I’m still fucking wearing, the fabric swallowing me. It smells like him, like cedar and something darker, something undeniably Ethan, and the worst part? I don’t fucking hate it.

  I hate myself for that.

   I glance at him, jaw tight, fingers steady on the wheel like he’s unfazed, like that didn’t happen. Like I didn’t feel his hands gripping me like he owned me, like he didn’t kiss me back with a hunger that burned through every inch of my skin.

   And then he pulled away. Said we shouldn’t. Like it meant nothing.

   Asshole.

   I press my forehead against the window, the cool glass grounding me for a second. My thigh throbs from where I sliced into it last night, a dull, pulsing ache. The shower had done nothing but irritate it more, but the pain is good. It keeps me tethered to the now.

   My fingers twitch against my knee, itching for something—my phone, a text to Declan, a call to Max—anything to drown out the storm brewing in my chest. Or better yet, the sharp edge of a blade, deep enough to quiet the noise clawing at my skull. But I don’t. Instead, I sit here, letting the silence drag on, letting Ethan act like nothing fucking happened.

   Fine. Two can play this game.

   I shift, just enough to let out a sharp, deliberate exhale. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Barely noticeable. But I see it.

   A slow smirk pulls at my lips.

   Good.

   “So,” I finally break the silence, my voice laced with indifference. “You’re just gonna act like the kiss didn’t happen?”

   He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look at me. Just keeps his fucking eyes on the road.

   “You were drunk.” His tone is clipped. Controlled.

   I scoff. “Oh, so now you’re some moral fucking saint?” I stretch my arms out, making a show of it. “You sure didn’t seem to mind when you were pushing me up against the wall.”

   His jaw tightens.

   I chuckle, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

   Nothing.

   No reaction.

   Like I don’t fucking exist.

   The irritation in my chest morphs into something heavier, something ugly and bitter. Fine. He wants to pretend? I can do that too.

   I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes, and exhaling slowly. My head still pounds from last night, my body still aches from more than just the alcohol, and the last thing I need is to let him fucking win this.

   But then, just as I think the conversation is over, he speaks.

   “Did you finish the story?”

   My eyes snap open.

   Are you fucking kidding me?

   I stare at him, waiting for him to take it back, to realize how fucking ridiculous that is after everything that happened a few hours ago. But he doesn’t. His focus is still on the road like my reaction doesn’t matter.