I don't see Noah in the eyes since we met. Not once. It's not that I try to avoid him, but my body betrays me—my gaze always finds somewhere else to land. The buttons on his shirt. The curve of the steering wheel. My own hands twisted in my lap. The passing blur of streetlights. Anything but his eyes.
But I still see him, in the corner of my vision.
Still notice the shadows beneath his eyes, the way they sink darker than yesterday. I don't know if it's from lack of sleep or something deeper. But they're there—soft, bruised hollows like ink smudged beneath skin.
My own head throbs like a dull, persistent drumbeat. The light is too loud. The silence, even louder. I wince and press my fingertips to my temples, trying to rub out the migraine blooming behind my forehead.
Noah glances at me from the driver's seat.
