Warm. Quiet. Still.
No pressure. No one watching. The driver’s expression is neutral and patient.
I hesitate long enough that it becomes a decision.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Thank you.”
The door opens. I slide into the back seat, the interior immediately swallowing me in supple leather and warmth. The city noise dulls the moment the door shuts, like someone turned the volume down on the world.
I exhale.
It slips out of me before I realize I was holding it.
The car pulls away smoothly. No conversation. No radio. Just the low hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of movement.
I sink back against the seat and close my eyes.
When I open them again, I notice the cup holder beside me.
There’s a ceramic travel mug there. Matte black. Simple. Unassuming.
Curiosity wins, and I bring the cup to my face and breathe it in.
It's my favourite tea.
The exact blend I drink at night. Chamomile, lavender, and a hint of vanilla. The one I buy in bulk when it’s on sale because it’s the only thing that settles my nerves when everything feels like too much.
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
How the hell did he know?
I take a cautious sip. It’s still warm. Not hot. Perfect.
I don’t cry, although that is exactly what I want to do at this moment. I just sit there, holding the cup between my hands, letting the warmth seep into me.
The car glides through the city, streetlights blurring past the window. My eyelids grow heavy, my thoughts slowing, unravelling. I don’t fight it when my head tips slightly to the side.
I drift.
Not fully asleep. Just… suspended. Safe enough to let go a little.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt that.
When the car slows, I startle awake, embarrassed, but the driver doesn’t comment. He pulls up in front of my building, quiet and efficient.
“We’re here,” he says gently.
I nod, gather my bag, and clutch the cup like it’s something precious.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean more than just the ride.
He inclines his head. “Have a good evening, Ms. Bennett.”
I step out into the cool air and watch the car disappear down the street before heading inside.
Mom is asleep. Em’s door is closed. The apartment smells like soup, and the faint tang of the natural cleaner Em urged me to buy.
I set the mug on the counter and lean against it, suddenly overwhelmed by the quiet.
