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"Complicated," she says into thin air, without looking at him. "That's what we are, Noah. We're complicated."
He smiles to himself, shifts his weight. It's an oddly comforting statement from an oddly comforting woman. She understands him in ways no one else ever has, and he feels almost guilty about that. He's not really sure why.
"Do you trust me?" she asks the darkness.
"Not really," he says plainly.
"Good," she says, and he can hear the wry smile in her voice. Then, after a beat, "You should go."
He nods and gets out of the car without another word, and just as he's about to close the door, she calls to him. He turns back, and it's the first time they've looked each other in the eye for more than five seconds in months. It's strange, but not unwelcome.
"You'll take care of them," she says, practically leaning out the door, and it's as much a question as it is a statement.
"Like they were my own," he replies, and makes sure her fingers are out of the way before he shuts the door. He owes her that much, at least.