Not an offer. Not a request. Just fact.
She didn’t stop. Didn’t say thank you. Her head turned briefly toward the hallway behind us, like she could still feel him breathing down her neck. Then she nodded once—sharp, no nonsense—and kept walking. Past me.
I fell in beside her.
The silence was not awkward. It was thick. Tense. Familiar, to me at least. The kind that lived in trenches and aftershocks. Most people ran from it. She didn’t.
I respected that.
The scent of sweat, blood, and cheap antiseptic still hung in the air. Arena smells. War smells. Her pace never slowed. Not until we hit the doors and the cold night air slid between us like a blade.
Parking lot lights hummed above. My car sat near the edge of the lot—black, low to the ground, engine still warm from earlier. Sleek. Efficient. Like me.
She looked at it once. Didn’t say a word.
Good.
Words now would be a waste.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Her chest was rising too fast. Breathing hard but trying not to show it. Her fists were tight. Like she didn’t know if she wanted to scream, cry, or punch something.
Probably all three.
“Are you sure you want to ride?” I asked, not because I doubted. But because I believed in clarity. Always give someone the last out before they step into something they can’t walk back.
She glanced at me—just a flick of the eyes. Then away again. A nod.
Fine.
I pressed the key fob. My car chirped once, headlights flashing.
I opened the door for her, and she slid into the passenger seat without hesitation. But I saw the way she exhaled as the door closed—just a flicker of vulnerability. The kind most men miss.
Not me.
I closed her door gently. Walked around. No rush.
The engine turned over, low and smooth.
I said nothing. Neither did she.
She looked straight ahead. Jaw set. Eyes distant.
And I knew we were both thinking the same thing.
Whatever line had been drawn tonight, we had stepped over it.
Now there was no going back.
The silence inside the car wasn’t peaceful.
It was pressurized—like a sealed chamber waiting to rupture. The hum of the engine was the only sound, steady and low. No music. No words. Just road and breath and tension.
I kept my hands firm on the wheel. My posture straight. Eyes on the lane.
I drove the way I played: no wasted motion, no noise, no chaos. Every turn was calculated. Every second accounted for.
Mina sat beside me, arms folded tight, shoulders locked, her jaw like stone. She didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me.
