“Peyton.”
“No,” I say again, because the first one scared us both. “I do not want out. I want to know what I am walking into.”
Something in his face shifts.
“More than me,” he says quietly.
The old hallway warning returns between us, changed by all the nights since.
I step closer. “Maybe I am learning.”
His hand comes back to my lower back. This time, he does not remove it when people pass.
The night tilts.
We leave the Pearl with his palm warm through the fabric of my dress, both of us pretending we are discussing traffic, both of us knowing we are going to the same place.
At his truck, Ryan opens my door and pauses before letting me climb in.
“This still a bad idea?” he asks.
I look up at him. The city behind him. The team around him even when it is not there. The man in front of me trying, visibly, awkwardly, for something normal neither of us quite knows how to hold.
“Probably.”
His mouth curves.
“Get in,” he says.
“Bossy.”
“Accurate.”
I get in.
He drives with one hand on the wheel and his other hand open on the console between us.
I let him wait three blocks before I take it.
He does not smile when my fingers slide into his.
That would make it smaller.
His hand closes around mine on the console, warm and steady, thumb brushing once across the inside of my wrist. Nothing else changes. The truck keeps moving through San Antonio traffic. Streetlights slide over the windshield. Somewhere behind us, the Pearl keeps glowing like a version of public life that belongs to people with cleaner choices.
I look out the window. “You are very proud of yourself for waiting.”
“I am proud of you for lasting three blocks.”
“Arrogant.”
“Earned.”
I laugh, and his hand tightens for a beat before he lets it loosen again.
The problem with Ryan: even his wanting has discipline in it. He never grabs without checking the force of his own hand. Never pushes without leaving room. It should make him safer.
It makes me want to see what happens when he stops checking.
