My pulse skips, and I try to swallow down the feeling, but it lingers, metallic and sharp at the back of my throat. The words themselves aren’t much, but the way they’re asked? Like they’remeant to pin me in place, to wring out something I hadn’t planned to give.
For a second, I wonder if things could shift back to normal, if I could just laugh it off. But the question clings, stubborn. Its echo is everywhere: in the stretch of silence, in the way my hands can’t keep still, in the faint, unsteady beat beneath my ribs.
Intentional. Absolutely. And now, impossible to ignore. I clear my throat and drag my gaze back to the windshield. “Next question.”
He grins because he knows exactly what he did. But he lets me redirect.
“Would you rather only eat pizza with pineapple on it for the rest of your life, or never eat pizza again?”
His head jerks back like I slapped him. “The fuck, Bellamy.”
A startled laugh bubbles up from my chest, light and unexpected, like the fizz at the top of a newly opened bottle. “You wanted a game.”
“That’s not a game, that’s psychological warfare.” He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I guess I’d never eat pizza again.”
My brows rise toward my hair. “That’s commitment.”
“That’s self-respect. You don’t put fruit on pizza.”
My lips twitch with amusement. “It’s a topping, not a crime.”
“Tell that to God.”
I huff out another laugh, softer this time, and something in the truck uncoils. The tight vigilance eases, and the edges round out.
For the first time tonight, it feels less like recon and more like the beginnings of an old rhythm slipping back into place.
Cruz settles back again, stretching his legs, ankles crossing at the dashboard like this is his car. He goes still—the kind of stillness that has weight behind it. I used to think it meant he was relaxed. Now I know better.
Cruz Calloway is really good at pretending.
Another few minutes pass, quiet except for the soft thrum of the playlist and the scratch of my pen as I jot down a timestamp out of sheer stubbornness, even though nothing worth noting is happening.
Then, without looking at me, he says, “How long are we gonna pretend none of this is weird?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My grip tightens around the pen as I very deliberately watch the street.
“Sure you do. C’mon, Bells. It’s me.” His voice is gentle, annoyingly so.
I feel the words imprint on my soul like they always used to, whether I wanted them to or not.
“You disappeared for six years,” he continues quietly. “Six years. And now you’re back, sitting in your truck with me, running jobs.” A pause. “That’s weird.”
I don't move. The pen freezes between my fingers, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. A warm flush creeps up my neck, and the thud beneath my collarbone becomes so loud I'm certain he can hear it in the quiet of the truck.
“What do you want from me, Cruz?” I murmur.
He finally turns his head, rolling it along the back of the headrest until he’s angled toward me. His eyes trace over my face, like he’s taking inventory. Cataloguing changes and comparing versions of me I wish he didn’t remember so well.
“You have more freckles now,” he says softly.
The observation knocks the air right out of me.
“Oh,” I manage. “Six years is a long time.”
“Too long,” he replies, without even a hint of hesitation.
The words are simple. Small even. But they hit me with the same quiet precision he always had. A clean arrow shot straight through the space I’ve been working very, very hard to fortify.
