"Sorry," he said, reaching forward to adjust the music, his voice carrying a trace of apology that he rarely showed anyone.
But as his hand hovered near the controls, his eyes drifted upward, caught by the rearview mirror.
For a brief second, his gaze met mine in the reflection.
I sat in the backseat, silent, unmoving.
I like jazz.
The realization hit him all at once.
A faint frown creased his brow, his expression darkening almost imperceptibly. A flicker of irritation passed through his eyes, quick and sharp, like something he didn't want to acknowledge.
But then he noticed my indifference.
There was no reaction on my face. No attachment. No trace of emotion.
It was as if the music meant nothing to me at all.
That was what unsettled him the most.
The shadow in his chest deepened quietly, something heavy and unfamiliar pressing down where nothing had been before.
These days, even with Celeste sitting beside him, chattering endlessly, filling the car with her voice, he found it harder and harder to respond. Her words drifted past him like noise. He nodded when necessary, gave short replies, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Far away. Somewhere he couldn't quite reach.