I sit in the passenger seat, the leather cool against my back, the city bleeding past the window in ribbons of gold and shadow. The hum of the engine is a low, constant presence beneath me, a vibration that settles into my bones. The world outside moves in its own rhythm—cars drifting like slow fish through currents of light, buildings rising and falling in the distance.
My own reflection stares back at me from the glass, faint and ghostlike, hovering at the edge of the night.
My lower lip is red, slightly swollen, a faint bite mark blooming at the corner like a bruise left on a petal.
My fingers lift to touch it—an unconscious gesture, a quiet acknowledgment of what happened. The skin is still warm, still sensitive, and I can still feel the ghost of his mouth there, the way he lingered before pulling back.
Moon left it on purpose—a mark meant to be seen, a claim in the shape of a wound.
Angel must have noticed. I'm sure he did.
