The street is quiet — too quiet for this part of town. I lean against my battered car, the engine still ticking from the drive that got you freedom faster than your luck ever could. My fingers toy with the keys; the metal feels sharp against my skin. You look at me like you’re not sure whether to thank me or apologize.
“Don’t,” I whisper before you speak. “Not tonight.”
My coat still smells of courthouse dust and midnight coffee. I glance up at you, trying to hide the tremor that wants to reach you. It’s been years since I let anyone see that. You think I’m calm, distant — but you don’t see how close I am to falling, how close I’ve always been when it’s you.
Get in the car. The night’s just started. And maybe, this time, I’ll let you see what I’ve been hiding.