Locked Out

Driving Home in Rain

“I’m driving you home,” Adriana said. It wasn’t a question or an offer. It was a statement of fact, delivered in the same calm tone she’d used for the bolt cutters.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” Claire started. “I’ll just make a run for it.”

Adriana simply raised an eyebrow, a gesture both gentle and completely unyielding. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m driving you.”

The unsolicited kindness was so direct it disarmed Claire completely. For years, she had been the one solving crises. To have someone offer shelter without asking felt revolutionary.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

The ten-minute drive was steeped in strange intimacy. Outside was watery, blurred chaos. Inside was a warm, dry, quiet bubble. The only sounds were the engine hum, the rhythmic windshield wipers, and drumming rain.

Claire sat hyper-aware of everything. The clean scent of sandalwood that clung to Adriana. The soft glow of dashboard lights casting Adriana’s profile in orange and black. The sure, steady way Adriana’s hands rested on the steering wheel.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was filled with growing curiosity, a thrumming undercurrent of everything that had passed between them—the electric touch, the shared glance, and now this simple, profound act of care.

Claire felt a feeling she couldn’t immediately name. It took several blocks to identify it. It was safety. A deep, unfamiliar sense of being completely and utterly safe.

When Adriana pulled up to Claire’s bungalow, she killed the engine. The wipers ceased, and the rain seemed to grow louder, filling the sudden silence.

Neither moved. They sat in the small, intimate space, unspoken questions hanging between them, as thick and heavy as the rain-soaked night.