We drove to the restaurant quietly as music played softly from the radio, filling the car with a comfortable kind of sound that made the night feel warmer. It wasn't the loud kind of music that demanded attention. It was gentle, something familiar, the kind that made you hum before you even realized you were doing it.
I sang along to the songs I knew, my voice low and relaxed, occasionally laughing when I missed a lyric or remembered a line too late. The road stretched ahead of us in long dark ribbons, traffic lights glowing red and amber in the distance. The city at night had a strange calm to it—cars moving slowly, shops closing, streetlights reflecting on wet pavement from a light rain earlier.
Every time we stopped at a traffic light, Kasteil's hand would slide onto my thigh like it belonged there.
At first I tried to ignore it.
Then I tried to pretend it didn't affect me.
