The drive back from the gala was quieter than the streets outside. Restrictions lifted meant more cars, more voices spilling out of late-night bars, more horns echoing through the city's arteries.
None of it mattered.
Behind the tinted glass of the mustang, Don and Claire might as well have been sealed in another world.
She sat with her usual composure, one leg crossed neatly over the other, gaze drifting past the window but not distracted by it. Don leaned back against the seat, letting the silence stretch. No more provocations.
No more forced pleasantries. Just the hum of the engine and the faint roll of tires on pavement. vmmm~
By the time they reached the penthouse, the night had already begun to dull into memory. Samantha met them first—questions tumbling over themselves, compliments on how they looked, and, to her delight, a quick photo snapped with Don before Claire could protest. Small rituals, harmless.
