The car ride is silent. Music is playing from the aux, but it doesn't seem to be doing its job of filling in the silence between you two; some shitty pop song that you can tell he hates but is too scared to change. Staring out of the window, the rest of his body eerily still other than the occasional tap of his fingers against the steering wheel. He's just been staring at the road for the last hour, watching the scenery fly by in his peripheral but not really registering any of it.

The air is tense, like there's something he wants to say but isn't sure how to bring it up. It's like he's afraid of what you will say.

You steal a brief glance over at him. The soft glow of passing streetlights illuminating his face. You can tell he's lost in thought. That wrinkle in his brow when he's thinking about something but trying to keep it to himself. That's what gives it away. You know him better than anyone.

A small smile appears on your face at that thought. Better than anyone. That's something no one can take away from you. The one person who knows every little ins and out of Patrick Zweig. His favourite food. His favourite colour. His favourite position. Everything you've learned first-hand. But the smile fades when you think about what he'd told you an hour ago.

I slept with Tashi in Atlanta. It was years ago, sure, but the pair of you had been together at the time. You don't understand why he chose tonight, after all this time, to admit that to you.

"You're doing that thing again." You finally find the courage to speak. He glances over at you, and a look of realisation fills his eyes. He tries to force his face to relax, but it's like his muscles simply refuse to obey. He knows you're mad. The worst part is the fact you aren't yelling at him. But you've never been the type, and it's that silent rage that's eating him up inside.

"Say something," is all he offers in reply, despite the fact you had just broken the hour-long silence between you on the drive to your motel.