Page 7 of Watching You
I smile slowly, letting her see exactly how much I like winning. “Good girl,” I purr in her ear as I watch the chill bumps run along her porcelainskin.
I don’t take my eyes off her. Five hours in my truck. No interruptions. No escape.
She hesitates before climbing in, like the passenger seat of my truck is a threshold she’s not sure she wants to cross. I watch her eyes flick over the interior—clean, organized, nothing out of place. I made sure of that.
She likes order. I’ve seen it in the way she packs, the way she lines up her coffee mug with the edge of the counter, the way her fingers twitch when something’s off. I don’t know if she realizes how much she gives away.
The second she’s settled, I toss my duffel into the backseat—not neatly, just enough for it to land crooked and spill a hoodie halfway onto the floor. Her gaze snags on it immediately. I hide my smile.
“Seatbelt,” I say, starting the engine.
She clicks it into place, then adjusts it twice until it sits flat against her shoulder.
We pull away from the house, and I let the silence stretch. Five minutes in, I reach over and nudge the air vent so it’s aimed slightly off-center. She notices. I can tell by the way her jaw tightens. She doesn’t fix it, though. Not yet.
I scroll through my playlist and land on something I know she won’t like—loud, fast, chaotic. She lasts thirty seconds before her hand twitches toward the volume knob.
“You can change it,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road.
She shakes her head. “It’s fine.”
It’s not fine. She’s gripping her knees like she’s holding herself together.
I lean back, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the console. “You always this quiet, sunflower?”
“I’m not quiet,” she says, but it’s soft.
“Mm. You used to be quieter.”
Her head snaps toward me. “You didn’t even remember me.”
I glance at her, let the corner of my mouth curl. “I remember you now.”
She looks away, out the window, but her reflection in the glass gives her away, cheeks flushed, lips pressed tight.
I reach into the cupholder and hand her a coffee. Wrong cup. Wrong lid. I know because I swapped it before we left.
She stares at it for a beat too long before taking it. She takes a sip and doesn’t thank me.
Good. I don’t want her gratitude. I want her off-balance.
Two hours in, I “accidentally” take a different route, adding twenty minutes to the trip. She notices immediately.
“This isn’t the way to campus.” She looks around, panicked.
“Shortcut,” I lie easily. “Trust me.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s counting in her head. I wonder if she’s starting over every time I throw something new at her.
By the time we hit the halfway point, she shifted in her seat three times, adjusted the vent twice, and finally—finally—moved my hoodie into a neat pile on the backseat.
I let her think she’s winning.
Because by the time we get to campus, she’ll understand there’s no such thing as control when it comes to me.
The highway stretches out in front of us, long and empty, the kind of road that makes people talk just to fill the silence. I don’t mind silence. I like watching her squirm in it.
She’s got her knees pulled in slightly, fingers tracing the seam of her jeans like she’s counting the stitches. I wonder if she even knows she’s doing it.
