The drive back was the drive out, slower.
Her hand in mine on the gearstick this time. Fingers laced. Thumb on the back of my knuckles. The window down on her side. The CD on its second loop because neither of us had thought to change it.
Somewhere outside Croydon she moved her other hand off her lap and put it flat over the front of my jacket on the left side. Just where the box was.
She did not say anything. She held it there.
I do not know to this day whether she could feel the small hard shape of it under her palm or whether she had clocked something three days ago and was letting me know she had. I have never asked. Asking would have been cheating.
The hand stayed all the way to the underground car park.
We came up in the lift in silence at quarter past six. Her face against the front of my jacket on the left side where her hand had been.
I put the key in our door. Click.
