Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

57 | In The Backseat

He stares at my hand, before taking my offer, allowing me to pull himself upright. We pick ourselves off the couch where we slept (which isn't the best place for two) and head up to the second floor's bathroom, knowing our necessities are there.

I take my toothbrush out of the cup and wet it under the facet, squirting a line of toothpaste for me and Harlow.

We begin to brush our teeth in unison, staring at our reflection in the mirror, noticing the other. My wild hair is everywhere; frizzy and full of friction from our night together. My clothes are a product of wrinkles, and so was his. While Harlow holds the slight advantage of short hair—which made his hair look unruly and tousled—he isn't in his best state either.

I stare at my boyfriend through the looking glass, and he stares back at me, the toothpaste foaming in his mouth and a smile beginning to broad his lips, I couldn't stop myself from mimicking his same expression.

There was no joke, no punchline—nothing. It's just silence, saved for the sound of bristles rubbing against our teeth, yet I can't help stop myself. Laughter erupts from the back of my throat, watching Harlow, and he can't stop himself from following along. His smile brightening.

He steps closer, wrapping his arm around my waist and planting a warm hand against the small exposure of my flat stomach. I immediately sober, stiffening under his touch as his fingers braze against my skin, lighting me on fire. Maneuvering myself in his embrace, and stopping myself from playing around, I bend forward to spit out the remaining foam.

The entire time, my heart is thumping in my chest and heat surrounds my entire body. Is this how he feels with me?

We said nothing; rushing to finish the rest of our routine, heading to our respective bedrooms and changing into school-appropriate clothes. Once finished, we meet at the foyer, with Presley tapping his foot impatiently.

"Harlow," Presley greets his foster brother with a once-over, not slightly surprised by his dark overtone attire, before sparing a glance at me. "I see you were preoccupied last night."

Slapping my hand over my mouth, I muffle the laugh threatening to spill, while Harlow issues a deadly glare. "Fuck off," he swore, flicking off his middle finger, "I didn't know you missed me that much."

"Buddy," Presley plants a hand on his chest, hitting his heart twice, continuing the ruse, "I will always miss you. Remember the lullaby you would sing to me to sleep—"

Harlow cuts him off from continuing, shoving him forward and forcing his feet to shuffle out of the front door and towards his car, where Presley erupts in a loud, manic laugh. I couldn't stop a couple of chuckles from escaping me, and when they did, Harlow turned back to me with a shake of his head.

His cheeks slightly darken a shade of red, "he's such a fucking idiot."

I step forward, stopping right before him and cup his chin with one hand, his blue eyes settling on me, "aw, baby, it's okay. I would love to hear your lullaby one day," I grin teasingly, causing Harlow to roll his head back with a groan. That made me sober. I really need to stop teasing him—it's barely ten in the morning.

"Dahlia," he commands lowly, causing my eyes to almost budge out of my sockets and heat to resort back into my core. Oh no, this is not good for me.

I quickly slip my hand away from his face and turn around, feeling the heat of his eyes on my back, "I, um, I'll meet you at the Mustang," I told, ignoring the flutters in my stomach and subtly dash out of the front door, eagerly ready to throw myself into the backseat of the car while Presley is giving me a weird look, barely opening his door.