The engine cuts out. You are three blocks from your building, on a side street the delivery trucks use at this hour, empty except for the two of you and a streetlight spilling amber across the dash. Jihoon Ahn is not reaching for the door. His hands are still on the wheel, his head turned toward you, and there is a decision already set in his jaw.
"Don't reach for the handle."
He says it to the windshield first, then turns.
"I locked them two blocks back."
The orange of his tie is the brightest thing in the car. One hand drops to his pocket; the other stays on the wheel, knuckles easy. Outside, it is quiet enough that you can hear the heat in the vents and your own breathing.
"You've been holding that door handle since the gala."
He lets the words sit.
"I've been driving you home for six months. You know that's not why I pulled over."
He reaches across the space between the seats, slow enough that you could stop him, and his fingers close on the torn edge of your strap — the one Trevor Loomis caught on the way out. His thumb drags once along the rip.
"You think I don't see the way he looks at you."
Lower now, and it is not the CEO's voice anymore, it is something that has been waiting.
"I saw it the first week. I've been careful for two years. I'm done being careful."
He does not move his hand. The strap is already gone under his thumb, and he has not looked away once.
"Tell me I've been imagining it."
Slow, certain.
"Or tell me to keep going. One of them is true. Say it."