Page 192 of Kentrell

Quiet this time.

No sobs.

Just heat behind my eyes and that hollow ache sitting heavy in my chest… the kind that came from being blindsided by people you trusted most.

Out the corner of my eye, I saw him reach behind my seat with one hand.

A soft rustle.

Then he dropped something into my lap.

A sweatshirt.

His.

I stared at it for a beat, swallowing past the lump in my throat.

“Go ‘head and get comfortable,” he murmured. “We got a little ride left.”

I didn’t move right away.

Couldn’t.

But eventually… my fingers found the buttons of my coat.

I peeled off the cream cashmere carefully, folding it with more tenderness than it probably deserved. Slipped the hoodie over my head—dragged it down, sleeves swallowing my hands.

It smelled like him.

Cedarwood. Faint smoke. And something warm… something steady… something safe.

I zipped it halfway, finally letting myself glance over at him.

His profile stayed sharp, unreadable.

But his eyes flicked toward me—just for a second.

Just long enough to check in.

And when they did… something inside me cracked wider.

“Thank you,” I said, voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t say anything back.

Just gave a single nod like he understood everything I meant… without me needing to explain.

Then he pressed a little harder on the gas—like getting me away from all this… getting mehome… mattered to him more than anything else.

And for once…

I didn’t stop him.

I stared out the windshield as the city stretched out in front of us. Exit signs blurred past like background noise. The further we drove from the South Side… the clearer some things became.

“Now I get why she looks down on me,” I muttered. The words tasted like rust in my mouth. “I’m the living embodiment of her husband’s shame.”

It stung just to say it out loud.

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