The van smelled like old coffee and Roan's anxiety.
Kai had learned to tell the difference between Roan's silences. There was the comfortable one — the kind that settled between them like a third passenger when they'd been driving too long and had nothing left to say. There was the calculating one — when Roan was running numbers in his head, lips barely moving, fingers tapping some private rhythm on the steering wheel.
This was neither.
This was the silence of a man who had something to say and kept deciding not to say it.
"Just say it," Kai said.
Roan's fingers stopped tapping. "Say what?"
"Whatever you've been not saying for the last forty minutes."
