ZOE DEAN'S POV
The drive to the airport was quiet.
Not the easy kind of quiet that feels peaceful — but the kind that's heavy, filled with things neither of us dared to say.
I sat with my hands clasped in my lap, watching the city roll by through the tinted window. My thoughts were everywhere — the goodbyes I hadn't properly said, the memories that still clung to me, and the man sitting just inches away who once made me forget how to breathe.
Nero didn't say a word. He just drove, his expression unreadable, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift. Every now and then, his thumb tapped the leather — rhythmic, quiet, like a heartbeat.
I found myself memorizing him again, the way I always did. The dark leather jacket, the tattoos peeking just above his collar, the stillness that somehow made him seem even more dangerous. I wondered if he wore black because it soothed him, because it matched the shadows he carried so well.
