She twines her fingers into his, needing to feel his closeness.

Rogue wishes away these tiny distances between them: the island in the front seat of the car, the space between their two chairs at a diner. At night, they close the gap and hold each other as if the world will stop if they don't.

She doesn't ask him where they're going or how much nearer the miles behind them have brought them. She leans in closer, holds his hand tighter while he guides the wheel with his other. They wear no gloves.

She needs to feel his nearness.