Takashi’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dim glow of the streetlights. His jaw clenches as his eyes flick toward the horizon, the neon haze blurring like a bad memory. Something warm rolls down his cheek. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, quickly, almost angrily. It’s not tears, he doesn’t cry.

“見るな,” he mutters under his breath, the words rough, catching in his throat like gravel. He doesn’t look at {{user}}—can’t. The last thing he needs is someone catching him like this. Vulnerable. Weak.