Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

48 | Speeding Ticket

MIÉRCOLES
5:25 PM

Reid Harlow

"Anything going on at home?" I prompt, strapping Dahlia behind her seatbelt. I needed something to do with my hands, and in came the conclusion of buckling her into safety, ignoring the heated gaze of her stare and the steadiness of her breath as my fingers traced the edge of the belt, grazing her skin. It was something that definitely got my mind off the cigarettes.

"What...what do you know about emotional abuse?" Dahlia asks loosely, her breath in her throat. Normally, it would take a minute or two to wrestle the information out of her, but this time, she didn't bother to wait. It was as if it was exhausting, and she no longer felt like carrying the weight on her shoulders.

That's fucking fine by me.

"Emotional abuse?" I repeat, to which she wearily nods. I'm slightly taken off-guard, and I didn't think before I replied. Fuck, she was the only thing I was thinking of. "Isn't that...isn't that in the fucking name? When someone hurts you emotionally?"

She gives me a look, one that screams she wasn't trying to mess around and play games, but her shoulder relaxes and her breathing grows steady. She's still a bit tense, but she swallows hard, drops her gaze to the leg compartment of the car, the silence deafening. I wasn't fucking dumb enough to not connect the dots between her question and her father, but the unfamiliar term stings the tip of my tongue.

Is that what's it called?

"It's probably really stupid," Dahlia begins to say, as I open my mouth to object, "but Aysa told me about that word and ever since, I can't stop thinking about it."

I pause for a second, "was it about your dad?"

She doesn't meet my gaze, but nods softly. I fucking knew it.

"Well, I don't fucking know much about emotional abuse, but from the name, I'm guessing it deals with emotions." She looks back up, her eyes narrowing down at me, and she's trying hard to conceal a smile beginning to split on her lips—and somewhat mine. My breath hitch in my throat, "let me fucking finish."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You're fucking smiling at me."

"I'm listening to you."

Fuck, Dahlia, you're making it hard not to kiss you.

I tear my gaze away from hers, settling on the dashboard, and calming my racing heart. I heave a breath, "as I was trying to say—why didn't you try searching it up?"

She responds with silence.

And in the quietest voice, she mumbles, "it makes it real."

I immediately turn back to her.

Delicacy traces across every inch of her features, with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks. She pulls her full lips together in a thin line, a silent testimony to her vulnerability and her inability to rely more on the topic. I understood her well enough—knowing her, reading her—that I didn't bother trying to press for more details.

I lean across the center console and cup her chin, reeling her back into reality. She flicks her gaze up to meet mine, lips parted, so fucking innocent and so fucking inviting. "You don't have to say anything now, alright? I'm always here for you. Whenever you're ready, whenever you want to talk." I pause, letting my promise sink in, "unless your dad wants to do some dumb shit. You tell me that immediately."