DOMINGO
4:56 PM

Dahlia Gray

Harlow leans against the trunk of Presley's Mustang, without a cigarette in hand.

I fell into the space beside him, saving little distance between us. It felt more natural this way, and the decision to do so was purely based on circumstance. Before, he was always smoking and the smell of cigarettes would always linger on his clothes and force me to go into a fit of coughs. This time, without that barrier, I stood right beside him.

Right where I should be.

He doesn't say anything, but I could see his eyes fitted in the distance and he doesn't turn to meet my gaze. His hands stuffed into the pocket of his black hoodie, and his jawline sharpens for a second—almost like he was trying to control himself. I debated if it was about me: because this is our first lesson since that day, and this time, he knows more about me than he ever did before.

He knows more about me than anyone else.

"Hi," I prompt the first greeting, feeling a bit at odds, knowing Harlow always does it for me. He turns, setting his piercing blue eyes on me, and they soften significantly. His features relax, his jaw loosen, and his gaze studies me with such complexity, I would count the stars to know what he was thinking.

He swallows, fidgeting inside the pocket of his hoodie. "Hey," he returns, trying to appear indifferent, "anything going on at home?"

My smile falters, knowing the inevitableness of this question, but always fearing it in the end. "Nothing too bad," I answer, watching how his brows slightly raise, not convinced at my words. I don't blame him, but this time, I'm being honest. "I'm serious. There's nothing. Come on, let's start driving."

I twist around in my spot, taking precisely two steps towards the driver side, before Harlow wraps his fingers around my wrist, twirling me back into place.

He steps forward, cupping my cheek with the mold of his warm hand and his intense gaze staring back at me. His brows crease together, studying the outline of my face and catching the emotions layered thick beneath my eyes. "Dahlia," he says my name, like a breath of fresh air, "you know you can't hold in your fucking emotions when driving, right? That's the whole point of this."

He gestures between us with his free hand, describing our non-labelled relationship, and I take in the moment.

He's so close. His breath fans against my skin, and his lips a couple of centimeters away. His eyes set on mine, undressing me with one look, and I feel myself warm underneath his scrutiny. My stomach tingles, my heart running leaps, and we're just a couple of inches off by height, that I could just tip-toed on my feet and catch one everlasting kiss from him.

I grab onto his arm, like they were the only thing holding me upright. My grip tightens around his forearm, and he spares down a glance. "I'm not," I answer softly, eyes locked with his. Please, love me. "I just don't feel like talking about my dad right now, and talking about him ruins the mood. The mere fact that you brought him up already dampers my mood." I pause, studying him, "I came here to get away from him, remember? Isn't that the whole point of this?"

Realization struck him like a lightning bolt, and a flash of guilt crossed his features. He drops his hand, forcing me to feel the coldness of the breeze, and he swallows hard. "Fuck, I didn't mean to—" He pauses, calculating his words, shifting his gaze to the ground. He looks back at me. "Is there anything I can do to make you stop thinking about him?"

A thought occurs to me, and it lights a thousand nerves. It almost made me laugh, how stupid the idea appears to be, but it's just a simple tease—a tease that could quite terribly cross the boundaries between us. It's a joke. Nothing more, nothing less.

Unless he wants it to be.

"If you kiss me, I'll stop thinking about it."

And the silence thickens.

The environment suddenly grows louder; and I could mark every single critter that travels across the branches, the low caws of the birds, and the whisper of the wind. I became hyper aware of everything: how I'm positioning my hands, my heart racing a hundred miles an hour, the way Harlow is looking at me.

Both of our expression files into a set of neutral and tame, but my heart speaks otherwise. It practically rages in my chest, pumping and beating, wishing and waiting for him to take the joke and prove me wrong. I wanted him to kiss me.

Harlow, on the other hand, forces his jaw shut, and his eyes darken—struggling to keep in contact with me. It looks like he's trying to control himself, understand the dilemma of the situation before he says or do anything.

A minute passes, and nothing happens. My confidence deflates and I inhale a sharp breath, after holding my breath waiting for him. I break out into an easygoing smile, pretending to hold indifference. "I'm just kidding," I whisper, "it's a joke." I tilt my head to the side, pretending to study him, "what? Something going on inside your head?"

Harlow drops his shoulders from their stiff position, and exhales a large sigh. "It's not fucking funny," he scowls, "I thought—" he cuts himself short, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck, let's just get to driving."

He walks over to the passenger side and gets into the vehicle, shutting the door behind him. I stood glued to my spot, allowing myself a second to drop the fake smile and grapple with the reality of the situation. That Harlow, possibly, most likely, doesn't like me.

Coño, I really fell for the one guy who doesn't give a fuck about anyone.

"Plumeria," Harlow calls from the car, surprising me with the change of names, "are we driving or what?"

I nod wordlessly, heading to the driver side of the car, and entering into. Harlow offers me the keys, allowing me time to start the ignition and check the protocol of ISSM. The entire time, checking over everything, I refuse to meet his gaze.

I feel more comfortable with Harlow now, better than before, and the vehicle we sit in no longer feels like it's holding me back in place. I've always been so afraid of making mistakes, minor inconveniences, that I never tried to step foot into a car and attempt behind the wheel. Now, it feels different.

This feels different.

Harlow feels safe, safer than I've ever been before. He's comfortable, honest, real and there for me, without question—without asking. I still feel a bit iffy behind the wheel, groomed from my father's reactions before me, but I feel better now that he's beside me. That he knows me.

I trust him.

I just couldn't look him in the eyes because I'm falling close to being in love with him.

"You ready?" Harlow whispers delicately, feeling the heat of his gaze on the side of my profile. I exhale a large breath, closing my eyes for a good second, before grabbing onto the wheel of the car. I remember the protocols of ISSM, I remember enough about how to steer and drive, and I remember to keep my head clear.

"Nothing on your mind, right?" Harlow asks, just for insurance.

I nod, "nothing's on my mind." I answer, biting back a second reply.

Except you.

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DOMINGO
8:10 PM

Dahlia Gray

I successfully accomplished parking.

Not over the line, not crooked into the next space, not bumping the hood with the sidewalk concrete—but successfully. In place, in between the white lines, almost perfectly parallel.

The feeling was euphoric.

Harlow and I have been driving around the neighborhood, practicing my steering and turns with the signal lights. He made little commentaries, allowing me to drive however I pleased and as many round trips around the cul de sac as I want. It felt freeing, in a sense, not having to be bound to a destination and just drifting away in the wind, following wherever the road takes me.

Granted, it couldn't take me far since it was in a twenty-five miles speed limit neighborhood, but it's the thought that counts.

After I found myself becoming more comfortable inside the vehicle and controlling the steering wheel, Harlow transitioned the lesson into parking—practicing head-first in. He would direct every step of the way, maintaining his tone and controlling the irritation and annoyance that casually seeps through his words, without him noticing. He did his best, however, and that itself, I will always give him credit for.

I shift the gear into park, and turn to Harlow. A grin frames my face, and I expect him to be looking back at me. Instead, he's not, and he's looking down at his hands—slight shaking.

The outline of his jaw sharpens, and his blue eyes glowing distant—almost consumed in his own thoughts. His lips are pressed together, and he swallows a gulp, trying to contain something: an urge, a need, something.

My smile gradually slips off my face, as I watch him, trying to decipher his exact thoughts. He looks...lost, the best way I could describe it, and his eyes are searching for something he couldn't find. Couldn't have.

The heaviness of the atmosphere set the mood for the evening, and I waited for him to say something—just as he would've done with me. As his eyes searched, and nothing was found, and his hands trembled against his lap—I knew I had to do something.

"Hey," I grab his chin, forcing him to turn and meet my gaze. His blue eyes cloudy and wide, found mine, and a sense of clarity overwhelms his features. They begin to clear, but Harlow looks delicate. He looks like a young boy, who just lost his favorite toy, and no one seems to care enough to notice. "Are you okay?"

Harlow swallows hard, but doesn't say anything. His eyes scan over my face and vulnerability seeps through his expression–almost as if he didn't bother trying to hide his emotions. He was tired, and drained, and he looks like he just wanted someone to hold him.

I take both his trembling hands into mine, and I cup them inside the warmth of my palms. His hands were larger, and it was impossible to hold all of them inside my own, but I tried and I tried so hard to give him the comfort he always gives me.

"Your hands are shaking," I state the obvious, trying to slice through the stiff atmosphere I feel growing on us. He didn't want to talk about it, answered through his silence, and I needed to pull us back to Earth. To who we are to each other. "Are you cold? I can turn up the heater, if you're cold."

He's not cold, that much I know. The heater is on full-blast and the foggy hue is beginning to create a thin layer against the windows of the Mustang, opaque to the rest of the world to see. He just didn't feel like talking about it, and I wasn't going to force him.

I look back up to Harlow, his eyes strictly on mine. I take his hands up to my lips, cupping them within my own, and blowing in hot air–producing friction. "Is that better? Are you less cold now?" I ask, offering a soft smile, and glancing back to catch his reaction.

A small smile cuts at the corner of his lips.

It was enough to warm my heart.

And his hands stopped trembling.

I slowly begin to slip away from his touch—not having an excuse to hold them—when he takes my hand and interlace them in his. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't turn away, and he just looks at me, capturing my eyes along with my heart.

My stomach releases a jar of butterflies, and I smile up at him. We said nothing to conclude the silence, but this time, it felt like us. It felt comfortable, and ours, and there's nothing more I could ask for.

"You know," I prompt, tilting my head slightly to the side. "It's technically time for us to go home. We're done with our lesson."

"I know," he nods once, his eyes never wavering off my face, "but can we just stay in the moment? Just this once?"

You don't need to ask me twice.

I bring our interlaced hands to my lips, planting a chase kiss on the back of his hand. "Of course."

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who follows me on twitter? just curious if you guys are seeing the rants, rambles and spoilers i post on there?