Jojo’s P.O.V.
The ride back to my place was quiet. Not awkward quiet. But the kind of quiet that felt heavy. Like something was sitting between us, weighing down the air. Raven had been mostly fine after dinner, slipping back into our usual banter. But now? Now, he looked like he was a million miles away. His hands gripped the wheel just a little too tight. His jaw was tense. His shoulders stiff. And when we stopped at a red light, he turned to me.
His eyes—usually so sharp, so full of teasing warmth—were haunted. My stomach clenched.
“Raven—”
“I’m sorry.”
The words were rough, strained. I blinked.
“For what?”
His hands flexed around the steering wheel.
“For the way I reacted at the restaurant. You didn’t deserve that.”
I frowned.
“It’s OK—”
“It’s not.” His voice was firm.
