Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

26 | Merging Lane

SÁBADO
6:49 AM

Dahlia Gray

"Hey," I mumble, reaching out to Harlow as he reverses out of my driveway. His tired blue eyes are occupied with dark circles, the corner of his mouth ticks with agitation and his hair disheveled from waking up at the crack of dawn. I retract my hand.

"What?" He demands, shifting the gear into drive as he accelerates forward. The sun slowly rises from beneath the horizon, brightening the sky with temporal blue and little chirps of birds at the first glimpse of daylight. I don't respond. "What were you going to say?"

I hear traces of irritation building behind his tone, unable to disguise due to his drowsiness obstructing his social filter. I knew he didn't mean the attack behind his tongue, but Harlow speaks sharply—sharp enough to cut ice.

I swallow a gulp, pulling my hands into fists and releasing. My lips pressed together, suddenly weighed down with the feeling that I was a bother to his presence. Maybe I shouldn't have called him.

"Rosemary," he barks, not too tired to give me another nickname. "Tell me."

He glances at me from the corner of his eyes, before returning back to the road. The engine rumbles with each mile passing, the trees bypassing our windows as Harlow quickens the speed, and I feel the tension stirring between us.

"I...I just...I just wanted to say thank you," I mumble quietly, almost indistinguishable. A mere gratitude isn't enough for waking him at six in the morning. I feel awful. "For driving me."

This morning, when I woke up to prepare for my job, I received a text from SAINT Laboratories asking me to come in at eight am sharp. It was ominous, and I was on the edge of time—rushing to get to the bus stop before I missed it.

But it wouldn't have work. If I took the normal routine to go to work, I would've been forty minutes late—and that doesn't account for traffic, or extra stops or anything.

I was screwed.

Under my panic, I called Harlow and asked him to drive me to work. It was a slim chance he would answer and agree, but to my surprise, he did. He picked up on the second call, and he groggily got ready as fast he could on the phone with me.

Ten minutes later, he's here.

"You don't have to fucking thank me," he said, shaking his head at the thought. "I'm here. Anything you need."

My heart warms at the proclamation and I feel myself offering a soft smile. However, the gritty feeling at the pit of my stomach still rages, dictating everything I've done and asked of him is just added trouble.

I swallow hard. "I'm sorry to bother you."

"You're not," he declares instantly, taking a sharp turn down the highway. "You're never a fucking bother to me, and I don't ever want to hear you apologize for it."

My heart bursts, entering waves of foreign emotions. I squeak, "for real?"

"Honest," he nods, taking one hand off the steering wheel and reaching over to grab mine. It was a subtle action, nothing attached to the gesture, but it helped heal a couple of burden emotions I felt.

I smile, allowing him to hold me. I lean back against the leather seat of Presley's car, adjusting myself comfortably to the passenger side. I'm not usually on this side of the ride.

The ride was quiet, but comfortable. Since I'm not taking the bus, it'll take about an hour and fifteen minutes to reach SAINT. The sky illuminates with a bright blue as time stretches, skyscrapers and urban buildings form behind the concrete bridges and roads, and billboards take up every couple miles. Multicolored cars occupy the space in front of us and behind; everyone waking up for work.