The drive home wasn't long, but it felt longer than usual. The quiet wasn't uncomfortable — not exactly — just heavy. The kind that fills every space words should've been.
My hands stayed steady on the wheel, but my thoughts didn't. Every turn, every streetlight we passed made me think of what I'd say once we got home. How I'd finally bring it up — her father, that night, everything that's been hanging between us like smoke that refuses to clear.
I hated it. The silence. The distance. It didn't feel like... us.
When I finally pulled into the driveway, the lights from Val's Ferrari Purosangue reflected off the hood of my car, a perfect mirror of her: expensive, composed, and impossible to ignore. She'd swapped out the Aston months ago. Said she needed something "more practical." I didn't see how a Ferrari SUV counted as practical, but with her, it somehow made sense.
