(Khloe's POV)
"I'll take you home."
His voice was low, steady—like it wasn't up for discussion.
My pulse stuttered, still chasing the rhythm of his kiss. I could still feel him—his hands, the press of his body, the way the world had gone still around us. My thoughts hadn't caught up.
"You don't have to," I managed to whisper, though it came out softer than I meant.
He looked at me—really looked—and something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not regret. Something quieter, heavier.
"I want to."
Three words. Firm, final. They hung there between us like smoke.
I didn't argue again. I couldn't. My voice wouldn't have survived it.
He picked up my bag from the chair and walked toward the door. I followed, my legs moving on their own, still shaky from everything that had just happened.
The hallway was dim, the only sound our footsteps and the faint hum of the building settling into night. My heart beat too loudly in my chest, drowning out everything else.
He didn't touch me. Didn't look back. But I could feel him ahead of me—his presence a weight I couldn't shake.
When we stepped into the elevator, the doors slid shut with a quiet sigh. The small space felt suffocating, charged. The reflection in the silver doors showed two people standing side by side, both pretending the world hadn't just tilted off its axis.
The air between us buzzed with something alive, something unspoken. My lips still tingled. My skin burned where he'd touched me. Every breath I took carried the faint scent of his cologne, sharp and clean and dangerously familiar.
The elevator chimed softly as it reached the ground floor. The sound broke whatever fragile thread of thought I was holding onto.
Outside, the city had quieted. The air smelled faintly of rain and night. He led the way to his car, unlocking it without a word. His movements were controlled—precise—but there was tension in every line of him.
He opened the passenger door for me. I slid in, feeling the leather cool beneath my palms, my heart pounding in my ears.
The drive started in silence. Only the soft hum of the engine filled the space between us.
Streetlights glided over his face as we moved through the city—gold and shadow, gold and shadow. Each flash revealed something different: his clenched jaw, his steady hands, his eyes fixed forward like he couldn't afford to look at me again.
I kept my gaze on the window. The rain had started again—thin, uncertain drops tapping softly against the glass. The sound filled the quiet like a heartbeat, slow and rhythmic.
I should have said something. I should have apologized, or explained, or at least pretended I wasn't coming undone. But the words stayed locked somewhere behind my throat.
Everything inside me was too loud for speech.
I watched the world blur by—streetlights melting into streaks, reflections of passing cars slipping across the glass. I tried to breathe through it, tried to understand how something that felt so wrong could also feel like relief.
Beside me, he drove like a man trying to stay ahead of his thoughts. His knuckles were pale against the steering wheel, jaw tight, shoulders set. Every now and then, his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for me again but didn't dare.
The silence grew heavier the closer we got to my building. It wasn't uncomfortable—it was unbearable.
When he finally slowed at the curb, the engine idled in low, steady hums. The rain painted faint silver streaks across the windshield.
I reached for the door handle, my hand trembling just slightly.
"Khloe."
My name—spoken softly, almost a plea.
I froze.
I turned to look at him. His eyes met mine for the first time since the kiss. There was no anger there. No regret. Just a quiet storm—something raw, restrained, and breaking.
He didn't say anything else. Didn't have to. The look was enough. It said I shouldn't have, and I'd do it again.
My heart twisted. I nodded once, the smallest movement.
"Goodnight, Mr Rush," I whispered.
The sound of his name startled even me.
He exhaled, eyes flickering away. "Goodnight, Khloe."
I stepped out into the rain. The air was cold, sharp against my skin, grounding me in a way I didn't want.
I closed the door quietly, then stood for a second under the dim glow of the streetlight, unsure what to do next. The world had kept moving, indifferent. Cars hissed past on wet pavement. Somewhere down the street, someone laughed.
But for me, everything had shifted.
I took a slow breath and started walking toward my building. Each step echoed faintly against the concrete, matching the thud in my chest. When I reached the door, I turned back—just once.
He was still there. Through the rain, through the faint glare of the headlights, I could see him—hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward, but not moving.
He didn't drive off. He just sat there, like he couldn't quite let go either.
I stood there longer than I should have. Watching him. Wanting to move, but rooted by something invisible.
Finally, I went inside.
The walk upstairs to my room felt endless. I could still taste him—his breath, his voice, his control slipping just enough to reveal something real. I pressed a hand to my chest as if I could calm the chaos there, but it was useless.
Inside my apartment, everything looked exactly the same—dim lamp light, a mug on the counter, a blanket draped over the couch. But it felt foreign, like I was stepping into someone else's life.
I dropped my bag by the door and stood there in the silence. The sound of the rain on the windows filled the room.
For a long time, I just stared at my reflection in the glass. My lips were still flushed, my eyes darker than usual. I didn't look like me.
"What are you doing?" I whispered—to myself, not him.
The memory of his hands, his mouth, the weight of his voice pressed against my thoughts until I could hardly breathe.
I sank onto the couch, wrapping my arms around myself. The silence wasn't peaceful—it pulsed, restless, alive.
Because no matter how many times I told myself it couldn't happen again…
I already knew it would.
And that terrified me more than the kiss itself.
I tilted my head back, staring at the ceiling as a single thought anchored itself, quiet and certain—
It wasn't just my breaking point tonight.
It was ours.