I climb in and pull the seatbelt across my chest with shaking fingers.
Derek gets behind the wheel, starts the engine, and pulls out smoothly.
For a few minutes, we don’t talk.
The road hums beneath the tires. Winter sunlight slants through the windshield. The world outside looks normal enough to make last night feel like a hallucination.
But my body still remembers.
My mind still flinches at the thought of the bar.
Derek’s voice breaks the silence, gentle. “Where do you live?”
I blink. “You… don’t know?”
He glances at me, one brow lifting. “You think I keep files on my employees?”
“I think you keep files on everything,” I mutter.
A quiet laugh escapes him, surprised. “Some, not all.”
I give him my address and he plugs it into the navigation, eyes flicking to the screen for only a second before returning to the road.
The rest of the drive is quiet, but it’s not awkward. It’s the kind of quiet that gives you room to exist without performing.
I hate that I like it.
When we pull into my driveway, my chest tightens again. Not fear exactly—more like the sudden realization that this bubble is about to pop.
Derek parks and shifts into park, hands still on the wheel.
He doesn’t move to get out immediately. He just sits, staring straight ahead like he’s bracing.
I glance at him. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
He exhales. “You already said that.”
“I’m saying it again.”
His jaw works. “You shouldn’t..”
The words land like a bruise.
I swallow. “I know.”
A beat.
Then Derek turns to look at me, really look at me, and his voice drops. “You’re going to be okay.”
I want to believe him.
I do believe him, in a way that scares me.
“I’m going to file a report with HR since you all own part of that club,” I say automatically, because that’s the part of me that survives. Procedure. Documentation. Control.
Derek’s mouth tightens. “Good. And I’m going to make sure security reviews footage, entrances, everything. This doesn’t happen again.”
“That sounds like work.”
