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Summary
“I know you mentioned a raincheck,” Santos begins, and then she gets a little lost.
(She has the next words ready.
She’s been practicing them in her head for the last few minutes.
Still, they’re caught in her throat like a sip of water going down the wrong pipe.)
But Garcia is patient.
So unbelievably fucking patient.
"But I don’t—want to be alone,” Santos admits with a slight grimace, trying to sound chill and casual even though this isn’t chill and casual at all. But her voice comes out audibly strained because that was just enough of a lie to make her squeeze her eyes shut and bite her bottom lip way too hard. “I probably shouldn’t be alone tonight,” she corrects with what little air is left in her lungs.
“Okay,” Garcia says, simple and gentle and effortless, and nods toward the passenger side. “Get in.”