Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

26 | Merging Lane

I didn't want to talk, and neither did Harlow. I found that nice about us; our conversations were never strained with the intense need to fill the silence, instead we allow ourselves to be seduced by such. It was different, but I doubt I had anyone else that felt this way.

"Rosemary," I mumble, turning to Harlow. One hand occupying the steering wheel, the other one wrapped between my fingers.

"What?"

"You called me Rosemary," I repeat, reminding him of my nickname of the day. It dawned on me.

"Yeah?" His brows pulled together in confusion, as if he wasn't lucid enough to process where I'm leading the conversation. His blue eyes spare me another glance. "What about it?"

"It's a spice, Harlow." I said, a laugh tipping at the back of my throat. "It wasn't a flower."

His lips press together at the realization, and I could see the corner of his mouth tilt upwards. It was small, barely noticeable, but he shook his head to take away the gesture. He mutters, "it was one mistake."

I tilt my head to the side, teasing, "are you sure? Are you running out of flowers to name me? One day or another, you're going to have to call me Dahlia."

"I'm not running out of flowers," he snaps, a bit defensive. I never took him for a botanist. "It's early morning. Give me a fucking break."

The smile spreads across my lips, "so, you admit it? You're running out of flowers."

"I'm not running out of flowers," he snaps, a bit harsher this time. There's no malice behind his words, just a hollow aggression. "I'm just tired as shit."

"Hmm," I muse, to which I see him rolling his eyes. "Then give me another nickname? Preferably, not a spice."

I would never say it, but I grew somewhat fond of the idea that Harlow calls me a different flower everyday. It used to be annoying, where I had to correct him, but it became something of a ritual. To guess what's next. He knows my name—I know he does—he just chooses to taunt me, tease me about the origin of my flowery name.

He becomes silent for a second, and I consider all the names he called me. Lily, Daisy, Poppy, to name a few. I know there's more, I just couldn't think of it off the topic of my head.

"Chrysanthemum." He declares after a short thought, and my eyes widen at the choice he made.

"Chrysanthemum?" I repeat, to which he gives a subtle nod. He looks unbothered. "Out of all the names you could choose from, you chose Chrysanthemum?"

Harlow merely shrugs, his eyes pinned to the front. "You said you wanted a flower. I got you a fucking flower. Stop being fucking picky, Chrysanthemum."

I shake my head, and a chuckle escapes from the back of my throat. The smile on my face broadens, and we soon return to the silence. At this point of the ride, buildings have encompassed every ounce of space around us, natural habitats are replaced with guidance signs and asphalt flooring, and the faint outline of SAINT Laboratories begin to form.

Harlow stops at the front gate.

"What the absolute fuck?" He declares, shifting the gear into park. His blue eyes move from the front to the side window, taking the extraordinary view of the campus. "Are you going to an international college or are you working?"

"It's pretty." I agree, losing my fingers around his. He turns back to me as I unbuckle the seatbelt. "And we made it here with a few minutes to spare. Thank you."

He sighs, running a hand through his tousled hair. "I thought we fucking went over this."

"We did," I nod, propping the door open as I step out. "I just had to say it. Thank you, again, for everything you've done for me. I appreciate it. A lot."