He drove more slowly on the way back, as if the road itself was something to be handled with care now. The city lights smeared past in a soft blur, and for a while neither of us spoke. Instead we let the small, ordinary rhythms fill the car: the gentle click of the indicator, the hum of the engine, the faint rustle of my coat when I shifted. Justin's hand stayed on mine the whole time , not pressing, not claiming, simply present and the steadiness in his fingers felt like an answer to something I hadn't been able to name out loud until tonight.
When we hit the quieter part of our route, I finally gave voice to one of the thoughts that had been lodging itself in the hollow behind my ribs. "Do you think he meant it?" I asked, surprising myself with how small the question sounded.
