Luna didn't move. Couldn't. His heart pounded like a guilty drum, and the more Rachel didn't lash out, didn't scold or sob or scream—the worse he felt.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, voice hitching in the middle like a skipped stone. "I didn't mean to disrespect you, I just… I don't know what's wrong with me."
Rachel turned her gaze to him, masked and unreadable, but her lips curled into a subtle, secret smile.
"Luna…"
But he wasn't finished. He turned toward her fully now, eyes wet and wide, leaning down until his head was bowed in her lap like a penitent at a confessional.
"Please forgive me," he whispered, his voice breaking now. "Please—don't hate me."
A long pause.
Then, ever so gently, Rachel's gloved fingers slipped into his hair, stroking it with a feather-softness that made him tremble. Her hand moved in lazy circles, soothing, patient—almost maternal if not for the possessive curl of her fingers every few strokes.
"I don't hate you, Luna," she said calmly, voice low and threaded with silken poison. "I'm not even angry."
He let out a shaky breath, pressing closer to her thigh, searching for absolution in the warmth of her lap.
"I just don't want you doing that again," she murmured, still stroking, staring out the windshield. "Not in my studio. It's not the place for messy little… entanglements."
But her eyes, her eyes—gleaming behind the delicate mask, unfocused and distant—betrayed the truth: she was imagining it again. The bodies. The heat. The painting. The accident.
And gods, would she let it happen again?
Absolutely.
But Rachel Lovewin was nothing if not controlled. She merely tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and whispered, "Come now, Luna. Go inside. You've apologized enough."
Her hand slipped away.
Luna looked up, dazed, reluctant to leave the comfort of her lap, as if it were the only safe place left in the world. But Rachel's posture had shifted, a soft dismissal in her tilt, and he obeyed.
He left the car with the air of a man half-ruined, and Rachel watched him go.
Only when he was gone and the car door was shut did she allow herself the softest of sighs. Her fingers twitched once against the steering wheel, hungry still.
"Boys," she murmured. "Always such beautiful disasters."
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