And we can tell when someone’s nervous. Or lying. The cabin doesn’t smell strongly of her, though the herbs are just beginning to settle into the upholstery. It smells like a man. And beneath his scent, the tang of old blood. So—stolen jacket. I was right before, though not in the way I’d anticipated. I’d thought stolen lovably, affectionately. Stolen as in I wore it so much it kinda just became mine. Stolen as in You can have this thing I love. Stolen jacket. Stolen truck? Did I just hop into a stolen truck for a pretty girl? Fuck. Fuck.
