The drive back to the apartment was defined by a silence so thick it was practically tactile.
It wasn't the peaceful, companionable quiet of a long-term couple; it was a pressurized chamber, heavy with unvoiced accusations and the lingering static of a confrontation that hadn't truly ended.
Damon's knuckles were white against the steering wheel. He kept his gaze locked onto the asphalt blurring beneath the headlights, his jaw set in a rigid, granite line. Beside him, Ciara sat with a posture of practiced elegance. She was too relaxed, her eyes tracing the sharp angle of his profile.
She didn't speak. She knew better than to break the seal. Damon liked to project the image of an unbothered god, but Ciara had seen the flicker in his pupils…the momentary lapse in his iron-clad composure.
That flicker was the most dangerous thing about him. It was the crack in the dam.
