That did it.
Her expression shifted—just enough. The sleepy haze cracked, and behind it, reality settled like a stone in water. I watched it land. That flicker in her eyes as she remembered where she was. Why.
She nodded, slow, pushing herself up on one elbow. The blanket slipped down, revealing her bare shoulder, warm skin kissed by the pale morning light—and I had to look away for a beat longer than necessary just to keep my thoughts in order.
“Yeah,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes like she could erase the night that brought her here. “Okay.”
I gestured toward the bathroom with a nod. “Over there.”
I stepped back. Gave her space. But her gaze caught mine before I could turn fully away and held it. Sleepy. Clear. Vulnerable in a way that made something in me go still.
“Thanks for… you know,” she started, voice softer than I’d ever heard it. She didn’t finish the sentence.
“For bringing you here?” I asked.
She nodded, brushing hair out of her face. “I didn’t think?—”
“No one expected this,” I cut in, more gently than I meant to. I leaned back against the wall, hands tucked into my pockets like that would steady the tension curling behind my ribs.
She looked at the sheets. Then at me again.
And something passed between us in the silence. No words. Just the weight of whatever this was becoming.
I straightened. “I’ll find you some clothes.”
Her mouth curved like she wanted to be difficult but didn’t quite have the energy. She pushed back the covers and stood—shoulders bare, shirt hanging too loose—and crossed her arms in mock offense.
“Seriously?” she said, but there was laughter tugging at the edges of her words.
I chuckled, quiet and real, and turned toward the closet.
Whatever this was—whatever it was becoming—it shouldn’t feel this easy.
But somehow, it did.
She pulled her hair into a messy bun, the motion instinctive and unthinking, like muscle memory. Then she slipped on her shoes. No complaints. No sass. Just movement—quiet and efficient.
We didn’t speak.
But it wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was the kind of silence that meant something now. Heavy, but not hard. Like both of us knew that words might break whatever was holding the moment together, so we didn’t bother trying. She didn’t look at me when she stood. I didn’t press her with questions when I opened the door.
She walked out first.
I followed.
We’d been on the road for less than thirty seconds when she reached for the console.
“No,” I said, without even looking.
“Too late,” she replied, already flipping through my presets like she was defusing a bomb. “Oh my goodness, these are all instrumental. Do you meditate in here?”
“I drive in here.”
“You brood in here,” she corrected, making a face. “This is depressing. How do you not fall asleep at the wheel?”
Then she found it—pure pop bliss. The beat kicked in, loud and obnoxiously upbeat, like sunshine threw up in the form of a melody.
