The drive home felt like slow torture. Each traffic light prolonged the inevitable confrontation Miranda knew was coming. Nolan had that look—the one that said he wouldn't let this go.
She could feel his gaze flicking to her periodically as he drove. Her hands remained tightly folded in her lap, knuckles white with tension. The silence between them grew so uncomfortable that she felt compelled to break it.
"That was a pleasant evening," she offered, her voice unnaturally bright.
"Was it?" Nolan kept his eyes fixed on the road, his tone deceptively casual. "Because you looked ready to murder someone for the last two hours."
Her stomach clenched painfully. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?"
His words carried weight beyond their simplicity, implying he already knew the answer and was merely waiting for her confession.
When Nolan pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, neither moved. The silence stretched between them like a physical presence, taut and fragile.
