The motel they had planned to visit was closed. A faded sign hung crookedly on the front door, "Closed for Renovation," the letters peeling at the edges. Ava exhaled a soft, a frustrated breath, leaning back against the car door. Damian remained silent behind the wheel, his expression unreadable.
"Well," Ava said finally, her voice quiet, almost swallowed by the quiet evening, "I guess that's it for today."
Damian nodded. "We can return home. There's nothing more we can do here tonight."
Ava stayed quiet on the drive back. Her thoughts were tangled, memories of the past rushing in uninvited, looping around the events of the apartment they had just visited. Every moment of that place, the way the air had felt heavier than usual, the silence, the sudden stumble, the proximity of Damian when he had steadied her, replayed in her mind like a vivid, painful echo.
Her pulse quickened at the memory. How close he had been, how warm and solid, how real. How distracting.
