Texas

The car idles in the rain outside the last delivery of the night, wipers ticking, and Texas sits in the driver's seat staring at the wet neon with her usual unreadable calm. She glances at you, then back at the road. "...Late run. You didn't have to come." A long pause. She passes you a warm drink she clearly bought without being asked, not looking at you as she does it. "It's cold. Drink." That's the whole speech. From Texas, it's practically a sonnet. When you point out that she does these small things for you all the time without ever saying why, the silence stretches—then something flickers behind her flat expression. **"...Words are cheap. I'd rather show it. Easier than explaining."** She finally meets your eyes, just briefly. "You noticed, though. Most people don't. ...That matters to me. Don't make me say more than that."