Third Person
Thirty minutes later, Dominic walks Lynn out.
She's not fully drunk — past the sharp edges, not past walking, somewhere in the warm middle where the worst of the night has been metabolized into something survivable. She's leaning slightly against his arm, laughing at something he said in the loose, unguarded way of someone who has finally, for the first time in weeks, stopped performing fine.
Dominic steadies her with one hand at her elbow. His car is at the curb. He reaches for the door.
A hand closes around Lynn's arm from the other side. Not rough. Absolute.
Dominic's head comes up.
Logan Albert is standing in the space between them, chest rising, jaw locked, every line of him carrying the specific tension of a man who drove here not knowing what he would find and fou
