Get in the car
1145 Words
Aaron
I move the second she steps off the curb.
Not fast enough to startle her. Not slow enough to hesitate.
One moment she’s walking, unsteady, stubborn, refusing to look in my direction, and the next I’m crossing the street, the distance between us collapsing with every step.
“Reza.”
Her name leaves my mouth before I’ve fully decided to say it.
She freezes.
She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t look.
Just… stops.
The bond snaps tight, electric and furious, like a wire pulled too hard in both directions. Shay surges forward, sharp and protective, every instinct screaming to close the distance, to steady her, to claim space around her before she tips again.
She turns slowly.
Her eyes hit me like a blow.
Too bright. Too sharp. Glassy at the edges. Anger, alcohol, and hurt braided together into something volatile and dangerous.
“What,” she says bluntly.
Not a question.
A challenge.
Up close, it’s obvious how unsteady she really is. She’s standing straight out of pure will, feet planted a little too carefully, weight shifting like the ground beneath her is rocking like a boat on waves.
“You’re not going home alone like this,” I say.
Her mouth curves into something that might almost be a smile if it didn’t carry so much bite. “Good thing I didn’t ask your permission then.”
She turns to walk again.
I step into her path.
I don’t touch her. Not yet.
“Reza,” I say again, lower this time. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m aware,” she snaps. “I was there for it.”
She tries to sidestep me. I adjust without thinking, blocking her again. Close enough now that I can feel the sparks of the pull sizzling between us, and close enough to smell the alcohol on her breath, sweet and sharp, layered over her own scent. Unsteady. Flaring. Too loud in the bond.
Her eyes flash.
“Move.”
“No.”
The word lands harder than I intend.
Silence stretches between us, thick and vibrating. Cars pass at the far end of the street. Laughter spills faintly from the bar behind her, muffled by the door she just escaped through.
She laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t get to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely between us. “Show up. Watch. Decide things for me.”
“I’m not deciding,” I reply. “I’m stopping you from getting hurt.”
Her chin lifts. “By who? You?”
The bond flares, anger from her, something sharp and defensive from me. Shay bristles.
“I walked away because it was safer,” I say, teeth clenched around the truth.
“For who?” she fires back instantly. “You?”
The question lands where it hurts.
She doesn’t give me time to answer.
“You don’t get to stand there,” she continues, voice rising, “and look at me like that after you left. You don’t get to watch me fall apart and now decide that you suddenly care.”
“I never stopped caring.”
“Bullshit.”
The word cracks through the night.
Her balance wavers again, just barely. This time I don’t hesitate.
I reach out and catch her elbow.
The reaction is immediate.
She jerks like she’s been burned, yanking her arm back, eyes blazing. “Do not touch me.”
The bond snaps hard enough to make my vision blur for a split second.
“I’m trying to keep you on your feet,” I say tightly.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
She takes a step backward, away from me, straight toward the street again.
I block her with my body this time.
“Let’s get in the car,” I say.
Her laugh is breathless, almost hysterical. “You think I’m getting in your car with you?”
“Yes,” I say, without hesitation. “Because you’re not walking home like this. And you’re not thinking clearly enough to pretend otherwise.”
Her eyes search my face, like she’s looking for something, weakness, maybe. Doubt. Anything she can use to push past me.
She finds none.
“You’re unbelievable,” she mutters.
“And you’re not steady,” I shoot back.
She swallows. I see it, the flicker of something uncertain behind the anger.
“I can call a cab,” she says.
“You won’t,” I reply. “You’ll keep walking until you fall, or until someone notices you’re not okay.”
Her shoulders tense.
“I was fine,” she says quietly. “Until you showed up.”
That one hits.
I soften my voice despite myself. “I didn’t come to make things worse.”
“Then why did you come?” she demands.
The honest answer rises too fast.
Because I couldn’t stay away.
Because the bond wouldn’t let me.
Because watching you from across the street felt like torture and relief wrapped together.
Instead, I say, “Because you shouldn’t be alone right now.”
She shakes her head slowly. “You don’t get to decide when I’m alone.”
“No,” I agree. “But I do get to refuse to let you walk into traffic.”
Right on cue, a car passes closer than it should, headlights washing over us. Reza flinches, just a little.
That’s all it takes.
I step closer, not crowding her, but close enough that she can feel the heat of me, the pull of the bond humming loud and undeniable between us.
“Let me take you home,” I say quietly. “I won’t come inside. I won’t push. I just..” I stop myself, exhale. “I need to know you get there safely.”
She looks at me for a long moment.
Really looks.
The anger doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, cracking around the edges, revealing exhaustion underneath. Hurt. Confusion. Something raw and frayed.
Her jaw tightens. She glances past me, toward the street, then back at the bar door behind her. The choice weighs on her, visible in every line of her body.
Starla presses against the bond, wary but present. Shay mirrors her, tense and alert.
Finally, she exhales, sharp, defeated.
“Fine,” she says. “But you don’t talk.”
I open the passenger door.
“That’s not going to last,” I reply.
She shoots me a look. “Get in the car, Aaron.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
As she climbs inside, unsteady but stubborn, I shut the door carefully behind her. When I walk around to the driver’s side, the night feels charged, like something irreversible just clicked into place.
This isn’t resolved.
It isn’t even calm.
But it’s no longer distance.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
- Writer
