Your hand finds mine
as if it’s been waiting there —
no ceremony,
no glance to see
if I will let it.

The music from the club
still hums in our bones,
but inside the car
it’s only breath
and the slow click
of a turn signal.

Your fingers lace through mine
like they belong —
not tightly,
just enough
to say
stay here.

I feel the warmth first,
then the calm.
Like something restless in me
has finally sat down.

We don’t talk about it.
We don’t need to.

Outside, the light changes.
Cars move forward.
Lives continue.

But in that small pause
between green and gone,
there is a world
no bigger than our hands —
soft, steady,
borrowed.

When I let go
to shift the gear,
the space feels wider
than it should.

Still, I drive you home.
Still, I watch the door close.
Still, I carry the imprint
of your fingers
long after the engine cools.

Nothing more.
Nothing less.

Just that.

The B Side Soundtrack

A little music for the moment.