Page 27 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

Miles bleed away underthe tires, the hum of the engine a steady drone that's long since faded into the backdrop of my consciousness. The silence in the car sits heavy, thick enough to smother the tension that crackles subtly between us. Three hours. Not a word spoken.

Not since I ordered her to get in the car… not since she obeyed.

I steal a glance at Shiloh, her profile etched against the rain-streaked window, eyes skimming over the pages of some paperback she's brought along. Her brow furrows in concentration, or maybe frustration—it's hard to tell with her.

She turns another page, then another, but I can tell she isn't reading anymore. Her fingers linger too long, her gaze too distant. The silence stretches on, oppressive, until it feels like we're both suffocating under the weight of unspoken words and stifled emotions.

Finally, she snaps the book shut, her action resonating like a gunshot in the void.

"Can we put on some music or something?" Her voice is tentative, but there's an underlying current of defiance like she's daring me to keep up this silent treatment.

"Sure," I say curtly, not looking at her. My hands grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening as I focus on the endless stretch of road ahead. Silence was easier; it didn't demand anything of me.

Music implies a choice, a preference—a glimpse into the personal that I'm not sure I want to share with her.

If I share anything with her, I know that will be the beginning of the end.

It’s already so fucking hard to resist her.

"Okay, what do you like?" Shiloh's fingers hover above her phone screen, the glow casting shadows across her face.

"Anything," I mutter, trying to sound indifferent, but my blood is already simmering with irritation. Music is personal, and right now, I don't want to give anything of myself away—not even something as trivial as my taste in songs.

"Nobody listens to everything," she counters, a hint of challenge in her voice that makes me scowl at the darkening horizon.

"Really, I don’t care." The words come out more harshly than I intend, and I can feel her gaze on me, questioning, trying to peel back layers I've cemented shut.

"Fine," she says, a sly edge creeping into her tone. I hear the soft taps as her fingers dance on the screen, and then suddenly, the car is filled with the vibrant sounds of…

… polka?

Seriously?

I wince at the cacophony of trumpets blaring, tubas tooting, and the cheerful cries of vocalists.

I shoot her a look, one eyebrow raised in confusion. This isn't her style—it's not mine either, obviously. And there it is, thatsmirk, playing on the corners of her lips. She's messing with me, trying to draw out a reaction, any reaction other than the stoic facade I've been holding up since we left.

I let out an involuntary huff, which might pass for a laugh if someone were feeling generous, and shake my head, conceding to this small battle of wills.

"Folk music," I relent, admitting to one of my preferences. "If you have any."

"See? Now we're getting somewhere," she says, almost triumphantly.

Shiloh scrolls through her playlists with practiced ease, her fingers swiping the screen of her phone before she selects one labeled 'Folk & Soul.' The opening chords of a soft, acoustic guitar fill the space between us, soothing and sincere.

The melody is bittersweet, weaving through the cabin as we drive on. I find myself focusing on the road, the white lines flickering in the beams of the headlights, marking time and distance.

Shiloh settles back into her seat; the tension that had been coiled tight within her seems to unravel slightly with each song.

Hours slip by, the dreary day outside punctuated by the occasional glow of passing towns. We're caught in the bubble of the car, the world reduced to the hum of the engine and the stories told in song.

"I need to stop," Shiloh's voice cuts through the tranquility, hesitant but urgent.

"Alright." I glance over at her. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, a clear sign of her dilemma.

"And I'd like to change. This outfit is not made for endless hours on the road," she adds, plucking at the fabric of her blouse, which is more suited for boardrooms than backroads.

"Sure thing." I nod. It's a reasonable request, and besides, it gives me an excuse to stretch my legs and shake off the creeping stiffness settling into my muscles.

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