The drive should have felt normal by now.
But it didn’t.
Not really.
Because everything with him still carried that same low current beneath it.
That same awareness.
That same pull.
His hand found my thigh at every red light like it belonged there.
Mine kept drifting toward the center console just so he’d take it.
And every time I looked over at him, he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
“You know people are going to talk,” I said finally.
“They already talk.”
“That doesn’t help.”
He glanced at me.
“Does it bother you?”
That question sat heavier than it should have.
Because the answer wasn’t simple.
Not because I was ashamed of him.
Never that.
But because I knew exactly what people would see when they looked at us.
Not us.
Not the real us.
Not the wa
