I sit in the back of the car, eyes fixed on the world blurring past the window. Another cool morning, another day beginning for the city's anonymous thousands. The familiar streets slide by, but today feels different.
Angel sits beside me, a silent storm of nerves. I glance at him. He's pale, his posture rigid, as if he's being driven to a battlefield, not a photoshoot.
His hands are clenched in his lap, fingers twisting the fabric of his trousers—an old, telltale habit.
Slowly, I reach over and cover one of his hands with mine. His skin is cold.
"Angel," I say softly. "Why are your hands so cold?"
He doesn't look at me. "I'm fine." He tries to subtly pull his hand free, but I don't let go.
"Angel," I say, a little firmer. "Look at me."
He slowly lifts his gaze. His golden eyes are wide with a deer-in-headlights panic.
I smile, pouring all the reassurance I can into it. "Are you nervous?"
