The hair dye display catches my eye. If they're tracking us through cameras, we need to change our appearance. I grab black for him, auburn for me, and a pair of scissors. The teenager doesn't even look up from his phone as I pay cash.
Back at the truck, Sawyer climbs into the driver's seat.
I don't argue, sliding into the passenger side.
We’re back on the road until Sawyer pulls into a rest stop. "I need to treat this." He points to his side where fresh blood seeps through his shirt.
The bathroom is grimy, fluorescent light flickering, and smells like industrial cleaner and desperation. But it has runningwater and a lockable door. Sawyer peels off his shirt, and I forget to breathe for a second.
His torso is a map of violence—old scars layered under fresh bruises, the new graze angry and red against tan skin. But it's the body underneath that makes heat pool in my belly.
Functional muscle, not gym-pretty but earned through use. A dusting of dark hair across his chest. Hip bones that cut sharply above his tactical pants.
"You're staring," he says, mouth quirking.
"You're hurt." I force myself to focus on medical, not the way I want to trace every scar with my tongue.
The graze is deeper than I thought, still seeping blood, and his entire right side is purple-black with bruising. "This is going to hurt," I warn, cleaning the wound with antiseptic.
"I've had worse." But his jaw clenches, muscles tensing under my hands.
I work as gently as I can, hyperaware of his skin under my palms, the way his breathing changes when I hit a particularly tender spot. This close, I can smell him—gunpowder and sweat and that cedar scent that's becoming familiar.
"Some of these scars are recent."
"Occupational hazards. Guardian HRS doesn't exactly handle easy cases."
"And the burn scars?" I trace one that wraps around his ribs, feeling him shiver under the touch. "All from the crash? Did anyone else…" I can’t finish the question, and realize I probably shouldn’t have asked.
"I was the only survivor."
"Survivor's guilt is a hell of a thing."
"Speaking from experience?"
"My parents died in a car accident when I was seven. I was in the back seat, and walked away without a scratch." I tape down the fresh bandage, letting my hands linger perhaps longerthan necessary. "Spent years wondering why I lived when they didn't."
"Find an answer?"
"No. But I found a purpose. That's almost as good." I help him back into his shirt. "Your turn. Why did Tyler's death hit you so hard? You said it wasn't your fault."
He's quiet for a moment, and I think he won't answer. Then: "Because he had kids. Two little girls who'll grow up without their father because I couldn't get him out. Every month I send money to his widow, and every month she thanks me, not knowing I'm the reason she's alone."
"You're not?—"
"I know. Logically, I know. But logic doesn't stop the dreams where I save him. Where I'm faster or stronger or just... enough."
I cup his face, force him to look at me. "You are enough. You've saved me three times and counting. You're enough."
Something shifts in his eyes, and then he's kissing me, desperate and deep. When we break apart, we're both shaking.
"We should go," he says roughly. "They'll track the truck soon."
He pulls me close, and I realize it's not about desire—he's checking the parking lot over my shoulder. "Two vehicles just pulled in. Could be nothing."
"What do we do?" Fear knots my stomache, gripping hard.
"We walk out casually. Couple on a road trip." He takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. "If they move on us, you run for the truck. Don't look back."
