We step toward the car, and the morning feels too bright for how shaky my insides are. The sleek black sedan waits like it stepped out of someone else’s life, definitely not mine.
The driver steps out the moment he sees Dane.
“Morning, Mr Stark,” he says, nodding with a professional warmth that feels rehearsed.
Mr Stark.
I blink. My throat dries. My stomach drops.
Then his eyes shift to me, softening. “Good morning, Miss Penn.” A genuine smile warms his whole face.
“Good… morning,” I whisper, sounding like someone learning how to talk for the first time. Confused. Shaken. Thrown into a world I didn’t know existed.
Beside me, Dane stiffens in that subtle way he does when he’s bracing for something.
“Morning, Peter,” he replies, formal, controlled, his voice sliding into a register I’ve never heard from him.
We step toward the car and I’m still trying to swallow the name that punched me in the solar plexus.
Mr Stark?
Peter holds the door open and Dane gestures for me to get in first. I do, sinking into leather that feels far too expensive for my reality. Dane slides in beside me, every line of him tight.
Peter climbs into the front seat and turns slightly. “Where to, sir?”
Sir.
I choke on air, full-body splutter.
“Sir?” I cough, staring at Dane like he’s grown antlers.
A flush creeps up his neck, staining his ears red. “I—uh—Peter, the small country farm café on Main. Please.”
Peter dips his chin in the rear-view mirror. “Yes, sir.”
The car pulls out with a smoothness that makes my real life feel cheap and loud.
Dane wipes his palms down the front of his jeans.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
He’s sweating.
Nervous.
Fidgeting like a man sitting on a live wire.
I take his hand before I can talk myself out of it.
His fingers twitch undermine, like the contact short-circuits him.
“Dane…” My voice barely leaves my throat. “What is going on?”
He tries to look out the window. Tries to swallow words he clearly doesn’t want to say wrong. Tries so hard to get his breathing under control.
