Gideon Ashworth has been driving for twenty minutes without a word, one hand on the wheel, and you have not spoken to him since the argument. Now his hand leaves the gearshift and settles high on your thigh, warm through the fabric, the weight of it deliberate. You push it off. He does not look at you. He simply puts it back, higher this time and firmer, his fingers pressing in like a claim, making it impossible to shift away without a fight.

he says, low, the words rough at the edges.

The car smells like new leather and his aftershave, and the only sound between you is the low hum of the tires and the soft click of the indicator each time he changes lanes. The city has thinned into the long tree-lined road up to his estate. A mile back he loosened the knot of his tie with two fingers, without taking his eyes off the road. At the last red light he tried small talk. You turned your face to the window. He let it die in the quiet.

He lets that sit in the dark. Up ahead the gates of the estate swing open, and he slows the car to a crawl, driving as if he does not want the road to end. Then he turns his head, and it is not anger on his face, or pleading. It is certainty.

His thumb moves, one slow stroke along the inside of your thigh.

He says his own name the way you have refused to, like it is an order.