He chuckles, low and dangerous. “Then get in the truck.”
I hold his stare for three beats, then sigh like he’s the most annoying person I’ve ever met. “Fine. But I’m not sitting on the same side of the booth.”
“Like hell you aren’t.”
My breath goes short. He seems to realize exactly what he said at the same time I do. The night tightens. The river hushes.
We don’t move for a long second.
Then he rocks back on his heels, tone dialing down a notch. “Front counter’s fine.”
I should toy with him. Tease. Make him sweat.
Instead I say, “Okay,” because that softening cost him something, and I recognize the way his hand flexes when he chooses the careful path.
We lock up. He walks me to the truck with that quiet, predatory grace that makes the hair on my arms rise. He opens the passenger door and waits like he always did, like there’s a universe where chivalry learned to bench-press and glower.
The diner is half empty, the kind of locals-only lull where everyone knows when you exhale. The waitress behind the counter lifts her chin at me, then at Axel, a slow smile creeping in like I just brought her a gossip cupcake.
“Evening,” she says. “Two for trouble?”
“Just food,” Axel says.
“For now,” she murmurs, and slides menus our way.
We order without thinking—him meatloaf, me grilled cheese with tomato because I have six-year-old taste in comfort food. He doesn’t tease. He just nods like he knew I’d say it.
“You look tired,” he says, elbows on the counter, forearms braced, hands loose. “You on tomorrow?”
“Day shift,” I say. “Training refreshers. You?”
“Double. We’re thin.”
“You always are.”
He makes a noncommittal sound that meansdon’t worry about me. I roll my eyes. He notices. He always notices.
“Why the drive-bys, really?” I ask, twirling the straw in my water. “And don’t say lines. The lines are fine.”
He studies my face like he’s cataloging microfractures I don’t know I have. “Wanted to be sure nothing… surprised you.”
I blink. “Like what?”
“Like this mountain sometimes does what it wants. Like a memory. Like a night you didn’t see coming.” His voice drops. “Like today.”
The truth lands in the softest part of me. I swallow. “You saw me go out to the property.”
He nods once. “Didn’t want you there alone.”
“I’ve been alone a long time, Axel.”
“Yeah.” He looks at his hands. “I know.”
Our food arrives. He pushes the ketchup toward me because he remembers I dump it on grilled cheese like a heathen. I take it, and when my fingers brush the glass bottle, his eyes flick up like I touched him instead.
We eat. Or we try. Every motion scrapes nerve endings raw.
He catches me looking at his hands. I catch him looking at my mouth.
