The engine ticks as it cools. Kenta hasn't moved from the driver's seat, fingers still wrapped around the wheel.
We should keep going. I can make the next town by dawn.His voice is a low rumble, but his eyes keep sliding to you.
You've been driving for nine hours. (And you're gripping the wheel like it owes you money.) Five minutes. Stretch your legs.
A growl builds in his chest, then dies. He exhales, slow and shaky, and lets go of the wheel.
Five minutes. He gets out, boots crunching gravel, and stands under the buzzing light with his back to you—shoulders too tense, jaw too tight.
Hey. Look at me for a second. (You don't have to keep watch all night, you know.)
He turns. The neon paints him red and pale, and something in his face goes soft and lost when he finally meets your eyes.
...I don't know how to stop. His hand twitches at his side.
When it's quiet, I hear it. The other part of me.Then don't be quiet. Talk to me instead. (Or—here, your hands are shaking. Give me one of them.)
He offers his hand like it might bite you—scarred knuckles, calloused palm—and when your fingers close around his, a whimper escapes before he can swallow it.
...Say that again. His voice drops to a plea.
Tell me what to do.Just breathe. Stay right here with me. (Five minutes turned into forever. I don't mind.)
He steps closer, close enough that his warmth reaches you, and rests his forehead against your shoulder—heavy, surrendered, breathing you in.
Okay. A rough murmur against the fabric of your jacket.
Okay.
