Her gaze travels from my eyes to my hands, which have stopped fidgeting. “Easy,” she echoes, rolling the word around like she's tasting something unfamiliar. “That's new.”
“Not bad new.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
She closes the book, her thumb lingering on the corner of the page before setting it aside. She shifts, angling her body toward mine, one knee drawn up to her chest. “Just... don't forget the goal.”
My stomach tightens. The muscles in my shoulders contract, pulling me upright before I realize I'm moving. I press my palms flat against my thighs, steadying myself.
“I wouldn't,” I say, the words clipped and sharp.
Lola's knuckles brush my knee. “I know.” Her eyes stay steady on mine, no hint of accusation in them.
“I would never put us at risk,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can measure them.
Her mouth curves slightly at one corner. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the small scar near her temple from when we were kids and she went over the handlebars. “I know that, too.”
My throat tightens. The weight of her trust sits heavier than her doubt ever could. My fingers find the frayed edge of my sleeve again, twisting until the fabric strains.
“This doesn't change anything,” I manage.
“Okay.” She doesn't lean forward. Doesn't press for more. Just tilts her head a fraction, the way she does when memorizing something important, before her gaze slides to the window.
My ribs constrict around something heavy and tender, like a bruise I'd forgotten was there until someone pressed on it. I swallow and look away from Lola's face.
The hinges on Beckett's door whine—that familiar three-note complaint we've been meaning to oil for months.
“Why the hell are you guys still awake?” His voice is rough with sleep, one hand scrubbing through his dark hair until it stands at odd angles.
Lola's lips curl upward, that particular smile she saves for him. “I just got home. Bells was just telling me the Calloways wanna pull another job together.”
His bare feet make soft sounds against the hardwood as he crosses to the armchair. The springs protest when he drops his weight onto the cushion. His gaze flicks between us, pausing on my face a half-second too long. “Calloways?” His jaw stretches wide, eyes squeezing shut as his shoulders rise and fall with the force of it, a soft groan escaping as he covers his mouth with the back of his hand.
I nod and grin at him. “Go back to bed, Beck. I’ll fill you in on everything in the morning.”
He nods, yawning again as he stands. “Yeah, alright. Glad you’re back home, Lola.” He shuffles down the hall.
Lola unfolds herself from the couch, joints popping as she stretches her arms overhead. “I’m going to bed too. Love you, sis.”
“Love you too,” I murmur.
No lecture. No ultimatum.
Just trust that feels like a noose.
And somewhere deep inside me, two voices battle: one whispers what it always does—you don't get to want things, you get to keep people safe—while another, newer one asks why I can't have both.
I nod instead, swallowing the taste of something that might be resentment, might be relief.
The choice settles in my chest like a stone, heavy with the weight of all the paths I'll never walk.
41
RAFE
The desert doesn’t botherme.
Most people complain about the heat, the emptiness, the way everything feels exposed out here—too much sky, too much distance between things. Like the land itself is watching you.
