He nods toward the notebook in my lap. “The pen, the paper. Very official. Very serious. I’m impressed.”
“You don’t take notes?” I arch a brow.
He taps his temple. “Up here. Premium storage.”
I let out a snort before I can help it. “Right. And when your premium storage gets short-circuited because you get distracted, then what?”
He gives me a slow, lazy blink—equal parts challenge and amusement. “Distracted by what, exactly?”
“I don’t know.” I jot down another useless timestamp just to feel productive. “A dog. A twenty-four-hour taco truck. A pretty face.”
His grin blooms, sharp and bright in the low light. “Well, you’re not wrong. But I guess it depends on the face.”
I refuse to look at him for that one. He’s baiting me, and I’m not giving him the satisfaction. Not tonight.
Thin silence stretches over the truck again. It’s not comfortable or heavy—it’s just there. The only sounds are our steady breaths and the lo-fi playlist Cruz put on an hour ago. Soft percussion, mellow bass, nothing too intrusive.
He lasts maybe five minutes before breaking it.
“All right, I’m calling it. This is so boring.”
“We’re working,” I remind him.
“We’re sitting in a truck in the dark watching absolutely nothing happen,” he counters. “And you’re about three bad minutes away from stabbing that notebook out of spite. So let’s play a game.”
I exhale. “We’re not here to play games.”
“I personally think we can do both.” He shifts just enough to angle toward me, profile brushed by the streetlight glow. “Would you rather do recon with me or Gage?”
I turn my head slowly and give him the flattest look I own. “That’s a moot question. I’m already here with you.”
“So you are.” His eyes glint. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not answerable. C’mon, Bells. Play with me.”
God, he’s annoying.
And fuck, have I missed this.Him.
The thought hits and I shake it off fast.
A flicker of familiar mischief settles across my shoulders. It feels foreign now, rusty from disuse, but also good. Stupidly good.
I let a slow grin spread as I meet his eyes. “Neither. I’d take Rafe.”
He stares for a beat, then a sly half-grin hooks at the corner of his mouth as a low chuckle slips out. “Aw, c’mon, Bells. You know that’s not how you play.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Cruzie,” I shoot back lightly. “That’s exactly how I play.”
Something shifts in the air. Barely there but present enough that my skin prickles.
“Haven’t heard that in a while.” His gaze roams across my face like he’s committing the details to memory.
Heat crawls up my neck, slow and certain, a steady tide I can't ignore. I didn’t mean to use the nickname. It just slipped out of some dusty drawer in my memory.
“Old habits.” I lift a shoulder.
He hums low. “You never could choose, could you?”
The question lands heavier than it should. Dense, deliberate—a weight that nearly presses the air out of the room. It hovers between us, thick as humidity after a summer thunderstorm, too charged to ignore, too pointed to brush off. I blink, startled by its gravity, as if I hadn’t seen it coming.
