Chapter 3: The Ride Home (Samantha's POV)
1247 Words
The car was quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the crunch of snow under the tires. I sat stiff in the passenger seat, arms crossed tight, watching the frozen trees blur past the window. My reflection in the glass looked pale, and empty.
Jaxon hadn’t said a word since I got in. He drove like he didn’t care where he was going. He was steady, and controlled, as his eyes remained on the road. The heat from the vents brushed my face, but it didn’t warm me.
“Seatbelt,” he said finally, voice deep and even.
I fastened it without looking at him. “Thanks for the ride,” I muttered.
He glanced my way. “Didn’t do it for thanks.”
“Then why?”
He didn’t answer.
I stared harder at the window. I wasn’t sure if the silence made me more comfortable or more nervous.
My mind replayed the fight, the way Marcus’s voice rose, the way Jaxon stepped in like he was knight in shining armor. The image wouldn’t leave me.
“You always jump into other people’s problems?” I asked.
“Only when someone’s being an i***t,” he said.
I gave a bitter laugh. “So, what, you thought I needed saving?”
“I thought you looked cold.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He didn’t reply. His jaw flexed, the muscles in his arm tightening against the steering wheel. The dashboard lights caught the edge of his sharp profile: strong, distant, and unreadable.
I sighed and rubbed my temple. “You didn’t have to do that. Marcus would’ve backed off.”
“He didn’t look like it.”
“I could’ve handled it.”
He shot me a quick look. “You didn’t.”
That stung. “You don’t even know me.”
“True,” he said, eyes back on the road. “But I know a man like him.”
Something in his tone made me pause. Quiet, but certain.
I didn’t reply.
We passed the glowing café on Main Street. People were laughing inside, faces bright under Christmas lights. I turned away from the window.
“Why are you even out this late?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you be at practice or something?”
He gave a faint smirk. “You follow hockey?”
“My ex does.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
He nodded like he already knew. “Marcus Blackwood,” he said flatly. “Rival team.”
“You sound like you hate him.”
“Everyone does,” he said.
Despite myself, I smiled a little. “Even his teammates?”
“Especially them.”
I let out a quiet laugh that surprised me. For a second, the car didn’t feel so tense. But then the weight of the night crept back in.
He glanced at me again, slower this time. “You shouldn’t defend a guy like that.”
“I’m not defending him. I just… don’t want to talk about it.”
He hummed under his breath. “People who say that usually mean the opposite.”
“Wow. You’re full of wisdom, aren’t you?”
He gave a small shrug. “Not wisdom. Just experience.”
I looked at him, curious despite myself. “Experience with what?”
“People who pretend they don’t care when they actually do,” he said.
My stomach twisted. “You think you’ve got me figured out after what, ten minutes?”
His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Fifteen.”
I turned back to the window. “You’re impossible.”
“Been told that,” he said lightly.
The air between us shifted—less sharp now, but heavier somehow. The snow fell thicker, coating the windshield. He flicked the wipers on.
I caught my reflection in the glass again. I looked tired. Broken. And next to me sat the man who’d handled Marcus like it was nothing. Calm, silent, and too self-assured for his own good.
“Do you ever talk about yourself?” I asked. “Or do you just like picking apart strangers?”
“I don’t pick apart strangers,” he said. “Just you.”
I frowned. “Why me?”
He hesitated, then said, “Because I noticed you before tonight.”
My breath caught. “What?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “You were at the rink two weeks ago. Watching a game.”
My pulse skipped. “You remember that?”
“You spilled coffee on your coat,” he said. “He didn’t even flinch. Just kept watching.”
I blinked. I had gone to that game with Marcus. He’d been too busy bragging to notice anything about me.
“Why would you notice something like that?” I asked quietly.
He turned his head just enough for his gray eyes to meet mine. “Because I notice things that matter.”
Something inside me stuttered. I looked away fast. “You don’t even know me,” I whispered.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I know what it feels like to trust the wrong person.”
The words hit too close. I didn’t answer.
The car grew quiet again. Only the low hum of the engine filled the space between us.
“Was it your ex?” I asked after a moment, surprising myself. “The wrong person, I mean.”
He was silent for a few seconds. Then, softly, “Yeah.”
I didn’t push, but curiosity tangled with the ache in my chest.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She wanted something I couldn’t give,” he said. “So she found someone who could.”
I bit my lip. “That sounds familiar.”
His eyes flicked to mine, sharp and knowing. “Yeah. I figured.”
I stared at the dashboard. “People always say they won’t hurt you. Then they do.”
“That’s not everyone.”
I gave a small, bitter laugh. “You sound sure.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
He gripped the wheel tighter. “Because I wouldn’t.”
The car slowed as we turned onto my street. My chest felt tight again, but for a different reason.
“You don’t even know me,” I said again, trying to break the heaviness.
His lips curved slightly. “Maybe I do.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Not if you’re meant to know someone.”
I turned to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t answer right away. The tires crunched over the snow as he pulled up in front of my house. The porch light glowed faintly through the curtain of falling snow.
He shifted into park and leaned back, eyes lingering on me. There was something unreadable in his expression—steady, calm, but deep enough to make my heart stutter.
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” he said quietly. “But I know things I can’t explain.”
“Like what?”
He studied me, his voice low but certain. “That we’re fated for each other.”
The air in the car stopped. My heart skipped. His gaze didn’t waver, not once.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. So, I did the only thing I could in that situation.
I pushed the door open and hurried out of the car.
- Writer
