I don’t say anything until he pulls through the gates and takes us up the driveway. I grab my college bag from the backseat, and he grabs his briefcase, and we’re home again. Home.
He puts the kettle on and pours me a glass of juice, and I wonder if I’ve ever told him I don’t like hot drinks all that much. He seems to know.
I sit at the table and watch him make his tea, just waiting. His eyes are so serious.
“Ground rules,” he says, and I get a strange tickle between my legs.
He sits opposite me and I watch his hands around his mug. They’re so big. So strong.
“What are they?” I ask. “The rules, I mean.”
“I want to know you’re safe, Laine, always. I’ll need you to check in often. I don’t want you taking rides in people’s cars, I don’t want you heading anywhere you don’t know. Accident
