The way her eyebrows draw together slightly. The small movement of her throat as she swallows. The unconscious curl of her fingers against her palm.
"Okay," she says finally.
"Okay." I glance down at myself—shirtless, sweaty, covered in grease. "Give me fifteen minutes to shower and make myself presentable."
She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound does something dangerous to my chest.
"Fair point."
"There's fresh coffee in the kitchen if you want some. And I got some fresh cinnabons this morning, if you still eat those."
"Are you mad? Of course I still do."
I smile. "I'll be quick."
This is just a drive.
Just showing her around town.
We used to do this all the time.
Nothing more.
I repeat it like a mantra while I wash off the sweat and grease.
I towel off quickly, throw on jeans and a t-shirt, run my hands through my wet hair and find a fresh baseball cap.
When I return, she's standing on the porch, coffee mug in hand,
"Ready?" I ask.
"Ready.”
We walkto where the Mustang is parked in the garage. I unlock the passenger door first, pull it open for her.
Old habit.
She pauses, looks at me with something unreadable in her expression, then slides in.
By the time I'm in the driver's seat, she's already settled back against the leather, and the sight of her there—in my car, where she's sat a thousand times before—hits me like a fucking hurricane.
How many times have we done exactly this?
How many summers did we spend in this car, windows down, music too loud, driving nowhere in particular just to feel free?
I kept this car through everything—through rehab, through building the studio, through every practical voice that told me to sell it and get something more sensible.
But I couldn't.
There are too many memories stitched into the upholstery.
"I can't believe you still have this car," Nora says as I start the engine, and there's genuine amusement threading through her voice.
"There's no way I'd ever get rid of it." I glance at her, letting myself smile. "There were some good memories in this car."
Her expression shifts—something softer, more vulnerable.
"Yeah. There were."
