I drive with practiced calm, eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel.
Gen sits in the passenger seat, leaned back, gaze lost beyond the window, city lights sliding over his face and disappearing again. He hasn't said a word.
I inhale slowly.
I've never liked this feeling—this tight, uncomfortable pressure in my chest.
Why do I feel guilty?
He's the one who crossed the line. He's the one who forced me into a place I didn't want to go, pushed food in front of me I never asked for. I didn't do anything wrong. If anything, he should be the one apologizing.
That's what I tell myself.
I glance at him briefly. His upper buttons are still open, skin exposed. The place where the soup spilled must still be burning. Maybe the cold air will help. I lower the window slightly. Cool night wind slips into the car, brushing over his face, his collarbone.
He doesn't react.
Doesn't look at me.
Doesn't even flinch.
