But I can’t. Hedidn’tmisunderstand. And I don’t like the way that settles in my chest.
I catch the keys he tosses reflexively, and... they’re warm. Still holding the feel of his grip.
My fingers curl too tight around them. Enough to register how solid they are in my palm. How familiar.How foreign.
I clasp them to me a moment and then, calm as I can manage, I toss them back. “I don’t drive.”
I wait for the curl of knowing superior lips.I was right after all.
But he just looks at me, too long, too steady, like he’s glimpsed a ghost-shark in these depths.
Without a word, he inclines his head and slips behind the wheel.
The snap of the door should mark a change in tension. It’s a perfect opportunity to start over, keep things light, transactional. How’s your morning? Nice day, isn’t it? Autumn’s coming: clear skies and a slight chill in the morning. It’s all about wearing layers.
Instead, there’s silence.
A fleeting sideways look. From him. From me.
His hands tightening on the steering wheel. Mine, fumbling with the seatbelt.
A long pause, a longer breath. The readjustment of the rearview mirror. And then?—
He sweeps forward, reaching for the glovebox, and I haul in a breath of warm sea and hold it. He rummages and pulls out knotted blue cord and leather strap. It dangles briefly in front of me and I see little metal fish studded into it.
“Your wrist,” he says.
I lift it automatically.
He hesitates.
Just long enough that I feel the shift in air between us. Just long enough that I realise he didn’t mean he’dtie it himself.
I start to withdraw my hand, but his fingers brush my knuckles, a barely-there graze, before he catches hold.
The string loops around. Once. Twice. A ticklish drag, the rough cord grazing the softer skin of my wrist, his fingertips little pops of warmth against my skin.
I don’t move.
The knot tightens.
My skin prickles.
Trent slides his fingers away, but the touch lingers.
This time I do rub at it. Vigorously. He notices and quietly shifts back to the wheel, staring out at the road. “This was his. He’d wear it.”
The metal fish are a sudden bite of cold into the warm spots he left behind.
For the duration of this act, can I ever take this off?
I should ask.
My fingers flex, thumb rubbing over the rough cord. A restless movement.
I should say something.
I don’t.
