"Don't be." He shifts in his seat, turning slightly toward me. "Just don't want you wrapping us around a tree before we get wherever we're going."
"Where are we going?"
"You tell me, it's your van."
I don't have an answer. I've been driving on autopilot, just putting distance between us and that bar, between us and the man Dom left bleeding on the floor. But now that the immediate panic is fading, I realize I don't actually have a destination in mind.
"There's a rest stop about twenty miles ahead," I say finally. "We can pull over there."
"Okay."
That's it. Justokay. Like he's fine with whatever I decide and he's already committed to being wherever I am. The thought sends another jolt of heat through me. I must be touch starved to be this feral over a few words.
I focus on the road, on the white lines disappearing under the van's headlights, driving in the remoteness that surrounds the van full of turbulent emotions. The Cure fades out and Siouxsie and the Banshees starts up,Spellbound. The driving beat matches my pulse, and I let myself sink into it.
"You're not scared," Dom says after a while, and it's not a question.
"No."
"You should be."
I glance at him. His face is half-shadowed, lit only by the dashboard glow, but I can see his eyes on me. Smouldering and intense, searching for something.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because I just beat a man half to death in front of you and I didn't hesitate. Because I'd do it again. I would do a lot worse."
"It’s fine, honestly, you don’t have to worry."
"But that doesn't scare you?"
I think about that for a second, about what I saw in that bar, about the anger in his movements, and the way he looked at me after, like he was waiting for me to run, to reject him, to prove I was like everyone else.
"No," I say quietly. "It doesn't."
"I’m a little surprised you’re so chill about this."
"I’m chill because he deserved it." The words come out fierce and certain. "Because he put his hands on me and you made him stop. Because…" I pause, trying to find the right words. "Because I've been waiting my whole life for someone who notices me. Who doesn't pretend everything is fine when it's not. Who doesn't hide from the real world."
"And you think I'm that person?"
"I know you are."
The rest stop appears like a bright light in the neverending night, a small parking area with a few tables and a bathroom building, all of it deserted at this hour. I pull into the farthest spot, away from the single streetlight, and kill the engine.
The sudden silence is deafening. Even the music has stopped, the cassette reaching its end with a soft click. We continue to sit there in the dark, both waiting for the other to say something.
"First aid kit," I say finally, my voice rough. "I need to clean your hands."
"Roxy."
"Please."
He nods and I climb into the back of the van, my movements jerky with residual adrenaline and nerves of him being so close. The fairy lights glow above me, funnily portraying a cute innocence that does not exist in this van, as I dig through my supplies, locating the first aid kit tucked under the bolted shelf. When I turn around, Dom has followed me back, settling onto the edge of the mattress.
The space feels impossibly small with both of us in it, with him here in what I call home, I experience sensory overload at his presence. Too many emotions and feelings to acknowledge at the same time.
I kneel in front of him, the kit open beside me, and reach for his right hand. He lets me take it, his fingers curling slightly against my palm. Up close, the damage is worse than I thought with deep splits across three knuckles, the skin torn and swollen, blood crusted in the creases.
