The night air clung heavy as Kurt slid into the driver’s seat, his jaw tight, his pride still burning from the quarrel, and the silence between them pressed harder than the cold. Mimi sat rigid beside him, seat belt locked, her glare sharp enough to cut steel, and her posture so unyielding it felt like even the car itself dared not move.
He turned the key. The engine roared once... then sputtered. A grinding clutch, a choking cough... then silence.
Kurt frowned, tried again. The car jolted, lights flickered, and for a heartbeat he thought it might obey, but the engine refused to move, refused to bend, refused to give him the dignity he demanded. His Falconer‑black coupe sat useless, humming like a wounded beast, and his pride burned hotter for it.
Mimi’s brow arched, her lips twitching
