The ride home was quiet But not in an uncomfortable way.
Mark's arm stretched along the back of the seat, fingers idly toying with the ends of my hair, and I didn't stop him. If anything, I leaned into it, letting the warmth of his touch settle over me like a lingering echo of the last twenty-four hours.
Now and then, his fingers brushed against my shoulder, tracing absent patterns, and I bit the inside of my cheek, pretending I wasn't hyperaware of every small touch, of the way my pulse reacted to them.
Neither of us said much, but we didn't need to. The weight of the past day—the indulgence, the teasing, the closeness—hung between us, lingering like the taste of something too sweet to let go of fully.
I shifted slightly in my seat, my knee brushing against his.
Mark glanced at me, smirking slightly. He didn't say anything—just let his fingers drift lower, skimming down the length of my arm, his touch barely there, like he was testing something.
