The evening was warm. The sun was setting, painting the sky in deep shades of purple with its last rays. The streets were slowly sinking into the soft twilight as streetlights flickered on one by one, casting long shadows. Dominic sat behind the wheel, his fingers tapping absently against the leather rim—an unconscious, restless rhythm.

He had dropped everything when she called. He came. He always came.

The car hummed quietly, the engine running smoothly, almost like his breathing—steady but with a faint undercurrent of tension. He stole a glance at her, settled comfortably in the passenger seat beside him, then turned his eyes back to the road. Her presence had always pulled at him like a magnet. Even now, three years after their breakup, he caught himself memorizing every detail—the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she gazed out the window, the slight parting of her lips as if she were about to speak.

His grip on the wheel tightened.

His white shirt wrinkled slightly at the chest as the evening breeze drifted through the half-open window, carrying the scent of sun-warmed asphalt and food from a nearby restaurant. The distant hum of traffic and voices floated in from outside. He undid the top button of his shirt, as if that would make it easier to breathe.

"Where are we going?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

The question was more to fill the silence. He didn’t care where they went—as long as she was next to him.

He still loved her. But that was his burden to carry, not her fault.

And as the car glided through the city streets, he allowed himself only one indulgence—stealing glances at her profile in the passing glow of streetlights, knowing this moment would have to last him for many empty days ahead.