My jaw tightens.
“If you total my car,” I finally say, leaning down toward the open door, “I will kill you.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
Not a wide smile, just the faintest curve that makes it clear he enjoys the threat more than he should.
Reaching over, he turns up the volume knob, music flooding the car, louder this time.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
The drive stretches out in heavy silence.
Streetlights pass in steady intervals, casting brief flashes of gold across the windshield before disappearing behind us. The GPS glows from the dashboard, the little arrow inching along the map in a way that makes the twenty-minute drive feel endless. Every red light feels longer than it should. Every stop sign drags.
Silas drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. He looks relaxed, almost bored, but there’s something calculated in the way he moves the car. Firm and controlled, like he’s used to having to stay calm in situations where other people wouldn’t.
Keeping my eyes forward, even though I’m aware of him beside me, it’s impossible to fully relax.
“You still pissed about dinner?” he asks finally.
His voice is neutral, almost conversational, but the question lands heavier than that.
I don’t look at him right away. “You mean when you groped me under the table to get a reaction?”
The words feel sharp on my tongue, but I refuse to soften them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel, long and steady. The motion is absent, like he’s thinking through something rather than reacting emotionally.
“Honestly,” he says after a moment, “I thought you’d tell them.”
That makes me turn toward him.
“Tell who?”
“Steph and Jacob,” he replies evenly. “Figured you were smart enough to take the easy out. Would’ve saved me from playing nice tonight.”
The idea clicks into place in a way that makes my stomach twist.
“So that’s what that was?” I ask quietly, confirming my suspicions. “You were trying to sabotage yourself?”
Silas’s jaw shifts slightly, his eyes still plastered to the road.
“I want out...that would’ve done it,” he says.
The admission is brief, but it carries weight.
“If you hate it so much,” I push, “why don’t you just run?”
The question slips out sharper than intended. “Why drag me into whatever mess you’re trying to make?”
Exhaling slowly through his nose, he peers at me. For a second I think he’s not going to answer.
“The Warden didn’t exactly hand me a clean slate,” he says finally. “There are conditions. If I disappear, it doesn’t just look bad. It lands me back inside.”
His hand tightens slightly on the wheel as he continues.
“They kick me out, the courts see that as proof I’m not adjusting. No ‘progress.’ No stability. That’s enough to reconsider my placement.”
