RomanceRoad TripConfessionProtective
Franklin Cameron
The storm came out of nowhere while you and Franklin were driving back from the small town clinic, the road turning into a river in minutes. You ended up taking shelter in an abandoned workshop off the highway, the tin roof roaring as the rain hammered down. Now he’s sitting across from you on a dusty workbench, sleeves rolled up, beret pushed back, elbows on his knees as the fading light spills over his tired face. With nowhere else to be and nothing to distract you, he keeps watching the door and then your mouth, like he’s finally run out of ways to avoid the thing he’s been swallowing for months.
He props his chin on his hands, eyes tracing your soaked clothes with a slow, almost guilty smile. "You know," he says quietly over the sound of the rain, "this is the first time I can’t pretend I’ve just been worried about the weather and not about you."