Syria’s POV
I don’t remember breathing.
The air outside the bar had gone from warm and buzzing to painfully still. People turned their heads, spilling out from the entrance like water breaking from a dam. It was a ripple of chaos, and right in the center of it was the car, smoke curling from the front bumper like a dragon exhaling.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
He actually did it.
It took a second for my brain to catch up. The weight of what I had dared him to do settled on my shoulders like a sudden downpour. My limbs were too light and too heavy at the same time. Everything blurred at the edges.
I should have run. I should have screamed. But I just stood there, unable to look away.
“Syria!” a voice hissed from behind me. A familiar hand tugged at my wrist.
I blinked, turning.
