The drive back feels longer than the drive there.
Not because of traffic. The roads are mostly empty at this hour, the city quieter now, lights sliding past the windows in long blurred streaks. Liang Feng drives steadily from the front while soft instrumental music plays low enough that it barely registers.
But the silence inside the car sits differently now.
Before the gala, I had spent the entire drive trying to understand the kiss.
Now I'm just tired.
Tired in the specific way that comes after too many hours of paying attention to someone when you were already emotionally exhausted before the night even started.
Beside me, Bael scrolls through something on his phone. A message flashes briefly across the screen before disappearing again. His expression stays the same as it has all evening, composed, unreadable, completely controlled.
If I hadn't spent the past several hours watching him too carefully, maybe I would believe none of tonight mattered to him.
