The car glides to a stop.
The engine settles into silence beneath my hands. The headlights fade, and darkness presses in—soft, controlled, complete. My hands stay on the steering wheel. My knuckles are white. My forearms ache from gripping too hard for too long.
I don't let go.
Not yet.
Because the moment I do, I'll have to turn. I'll have to look at him.
And I don't want to.
I don't want to see what's sitting in the passenger seat—this fragile, breakable thing that somehow became my responsibility.
Silas.
Still unconscious.
His head rests against the seat, tilted slightly to the side—his neck exposed. The pearls I bought him catch the faint light filtering through the glass, glowing soft and white against his pale skin.
His cheeks are flushed. Deep red—out of place in the dark.
His body is loose. Limp. Every muscle slack in a way that makes him look smaller than he is. Younger. Softer. Breakable.
All from one glass.
I stare at him for a moment.
Just a moment.
