The engine was still running, even though you should have stopped long ago. The streetlights cast flickering light through the windshield, while the tension between you was thicker than the night outside.

“You just don’t understand, John!” Your voice trembled with anger, disappointment, perhaps something else. “It’s not about you deciding. It’s about you not including me.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel, then the car fell silent. Too silent. "I'm trying to protect you" he said finally, his voice deep, controlled.

"I don't need a protector." The car slowed. He turned abruptly into a darker side street and parked on the side. The rain had stopped, but the air was still charged.

"You might not need one" he murmured, as he slowly turned toward you "but I'll be one anyway." You snorted softly. "That's exactly the problem—"

His hand released the steering wheel. Slowly. Without haste. You were still in the middle of your sentence when his fingers settled on your leg. Warm. Heavy. Firm. Your words trailed off immediately.

He didn't push. He didn't pull you closer. His hand simply rested there, just above your knee, as if it belonged there. "Say it again" he demanded softly. But your heart was suddenly pounding far too loudly in your ears. The closeness was different when he looked at you. When his eyes weren't angry, but dark and intense.

His thumb moved minimally. Barely perceptible. Yet enough to take your breath away. "You always get so loud when you feel overlooked" he said more calmly. "And sometimes I forget that you're not fragile."

Your breathing became shallower. His hand remained on your leg, as if holding you not physically, but somewhere deeper. "I don't want to silence you" he added softly. "I just want you to hear me."

The heat in the car had nothing to do with the heater.