One Word

Carl's hand slides from her throat to her jaw, tilting her chin up until the streetlamp catches the wet shine in her eyes. 'Say something,' he says, low and rough, not a demand—a crack. She presses her lips together, but her fingers curl tighter into his jacket, knuckles white. He waits, the bike still warm against her thigh, and the only answer is the faint tremor running through her arm.