In the days that followed, everything felt louder.
Every touch, every glance. Like the intimacy they'd shared had magnified everything else. Mira couldn't look at Jace without feeling it—the memory of him, the warmth of him, how safe and dangerous he felt all at once.
And Jace... he was different now too. Softer, almost.
He didn't say much about what had happened between them. But he made her coffee in the morning without asking. He brushed her hair behind her ear while she read. He kissed the top of her hand like she was sacred and breakable and already his.
It terrified her.
And thrilled her.
---
"Let's get out of the city," he said one evening, leaning against the hood of her car.
She blinked. "What, now?"
"Tomorrow. Just for a day. Drive until we hit something green. You need it."
She hesitated. "We barely know each other."
"Exactly why we should."
---
The next morning, they drove north. No destination. Just winding roads, gas station snacks, and mixtapes burned onto old CDs. It felt like something out of time—before smartphones, before GPS, before everything came with filters and curated captions.
She took her shoes off and put her feet on the dash. He rolled the windows down, wind tossing his hair. They sang badly to 2000s hits and played 20 Questions and ate chips until the bag was just salt and crumbles.
"You're not what I expected," she said at one point, watching the trees blur by.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone colder. Maybe harder."
He smirked. "Oh, I'm hard. Just selectively."
She threw a chip at him. "Seriously."
"Seriously?" he echoed. "I think I was colder. Before you."
Her throat tightened. "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."
"I wouldn't say them if I didn't."
---
They stopped at a small lake around noon, the water flat and silver under the sun. Mira walked out to the edge of the dock, shoes in hand, wind in her hair.
Jace came up behind her and slipped an arm around her waist.
"I could stay right here," he murmured into her ear.
"I'm not ready for forever," she whispered.
"I didn't say forever."
"But you thought it."
Silence.
Then he kissed the back of her neck. "Fine. Maybe I thought it."
Mira didn't answer. She couldn't.
Because part of her wanted it too—and that was the scariest thought of all.
---
That night, back at her place, she curled up beside him in bed.
And for the first time, it wasn't about passion or lust or need.
It was about comfort.
It was about choosing each other, again and again, in the quiet.