The drive back didn't feel like movement.
Luna's hands stayed steady on the wheel, her eyes tracking the road with the same automatic precision she used for everything else, but inside, the conversation was still playing. Not in pieces—she could handle pieces. It was playing whole, complete, every word and silence preserved exactly as it had happened.
The way he looked at the bag.
She hadn't expected him to notice it. She had placed it carefully, deliberately casual, half-zipped so nothing would seem hidden. And he had seen it anyway. Of course he had. Dayo noticed everything. That was who he was.
"She's… how old?"
The question came back to her now, landing differently than it had in the moment. At the time, she had been too busy controlling her breathing, keeping her face neutral, making sure her voice didn't crack. She had answered—"Few months"—and watched him process it. Watched him reach the wrong conclusion and say nothing to correct it.
