Knight kills the engine two blocks away and makes us walk the rest of the distance, hood up, hats low, duffel heavy on my shoulder. The car’s too recognizable now. Too loud. Toous.
We’re not us tonight.
Tonight we’re two tired strangers with a single bag and the kind of paranoia that makes your bones buzz.
The neon sign outside flickers betweenVACANCYandVAC_NCY, like even the electricity is exhausted.
Knight ventures in alone first. Because of course he does. Because in every crisis, his default setting isshield her, even when I’m the one who bashes skulls with a bat and knows Krav Maga.
I wait by the soda machine that survived the Reagan administration, pretending to scroll on a dead phone while my eyes track every car that rolls through the lot.
A minivan. A delivery truck. A guy in pajama pants smoking like he’s mad at the air.
No one looks twice at me. But I feel like a target anyway.
I’m still hearing the cabin crash in my head. The splintered door. The muzzle flash. The moment we stopped beinghiddenand becamehunted.
Knight reappears with a key card and a receipt. “Room 112,” he says low. “Cash. No IDs. One night.”
“Bless the morally flexible,” I murmur.
His mouth twitches, but his eyes stay sharp.
We move fast.
Room 112 is on the ground floor, which I hate, but Knight insisted on it because he wants sight lines and quick exits. He checks the curtain gap before we even step inside, then makes me stand behind him while he sweeps the room.
Bathroom. Closet. Under the bed. Like hitmen are going to be folded up in the mattress like fitted sheets.
Still.
I let him do it.
Sometimes love looks like letting a man pretend he can control the uncontrollable.
“Clear,” he says.
I close the door behind us, double-lock it, and slide the chain across with a soft metallic click.
The silence that follows is brutal.
The room is dim and stale, decorated in aggressive beige. The bedspread smells like industrial detergent and regret. The air conditioner rattles like it’s trying to disassemble itself.
I drop the duffel on the second bed and exhale.
Knight reaches up and peels off his hat, then runs a hand down his face like he’s trying to reset his nervous system manually.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
He looks at me. “What?” he asks.
“We’re alive,” I say. “That’s something.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
I cross the space and hook my fingers into his hoodie, tugging him closer. “You did good,” I say.
His brow furrows. “We’re in a random hotel with a bounty that just escalated and two guys back at the cabin who’ll probably never walk again.”
