Henry Jackson's smooth gray sedan glided through the afternoon traffic like a shadow slipping between beams of light. Skyscrapers loomed on either side, their glass facades catching the sun and tossing it back in fractured shards. Inside, the city noise dulled to a distant hum, swallowed by leather seats and the low purr of the engine.
Eliana Bennett sat curled in the passenger seat, her hoodie zipped tight though it did little against the chill that had settled in her bones. Her fingers fidgeted restlessly in her lap, twisting the frayed hem as though it might anchor her spiraling thoughts.
Henry hands rested steady on the wheel, long fingers tapping lightly against the leather. Every few blocks he cut her a sidelong glance, his sharp profile softened by concern. He'd always had that look—back in college, when she was pulling all-nighters in the library and he'd show up with coffee and a lopsided grin.
