I sit in the backseat of the cab, my body pressed against the leather, the fabric cold and damp against my skin. Outside the rain-streaked window, the city slips past in blurred ribbons of gold and white—streetlights, headlights, the distant glow of buildings rising into the wet night.
The glass is cool against my forehead, and I let it stay there, letting the chill seep into my skin, grounding me in something other than the tangled mess inside my chest.
Raindrops still cling to my hair, heavy and cold, sliding down my neck in slow, deliberate paths, tracing the curve of my throat before disappearing into the collar of my shirt. Deniz's coat is draped over my shoulders—warm, heavy, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of roses.
It's too familiar. Too comforting. It makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to examine, in ways that threaten to undo the careful walls I've built around myself.
