The ride back from the dinner was quieter than Sheila expected.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… heavy.
The city lights streaked across the windshield as Atticus drove, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while the other remained clenched against his thigh, like he was holding something back. Sheila watched the passing buildings, replaying the balcony moment in her head over and over again, her chest tightening each time she remembered the way he had looked at her.
Like she was something fragile.
Like she was something dangerous.
She shifted slightly in her seat. “You didn’t have to drive me home, you know.”
“I know,” he said.
“But you did anyway.”
“Yes.”
She glanced at him. “You’re not going to elaborate, are you?”
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You alread
