We get in and I immediately feel like a child in a grown-up's chair. Feet barely reach the pedals. Kai watches with amusement as I hunt for the seat adjustment.
“Button's on the left side,” he offers.
I find it, slide the seat forward until I can actually press the brake, adjust the mirrors. The rearview is pointing at the ceiling.
“How tall was the last person who drove this?”
“Ethan borrowed it last month.”
“Giant.”
I finally get everything positioned. “Okay. Let's go.”
I don't test what the car can do. I drive carefully, merge onto the highway heading toward the coast. Kai watches from the passenger seat, injured leg stretched out in the spacious footwell.
“You're a good driver,” he says.
“You sound surprised.”
“I'm not surprised. Just enjoying the view.”
I glance over. He's not looking at the road.
“Eyes forward, Rhodes. I'm trying to concentrate.”
He laughs. The tension bleeds out of the car. The city gives way to suburbs, then stretches of green, then the gleam of water on the horizon.
I pull off at a lookout point I found during my first week in Silverpoint. Back then I came here to cry, overwhelmed by the new city and the weight of starting over. Now I bring Kai here to breathe.
The parking area is nearly empty. One other car, occupants nowhere in sight, probably walking the trail that winds toward the beach. A vendor has set up near the overlook, selling coffee and pastries.
I park, come around to help Kai out. The Range Rover's height actually makes it easier. He swings his good leg out first, carefully maneuvers the boot, accepts my arm for balance. Crutches are in the back but he leaves them.
“I can manage for a bit,” he says when I raise an eyebrow. “Just stay close.”
The ocean wind hits us the moment we step away from the car. Cool, salt-sharp, alive. Kai closes his eyes, inhales like he's been holding his breath for weeks.
Maybe he has.
“Wait here,” I say. “I'll get us something.”
The vendor is a weathered man with kind eyes who calls mesweetheartand insists the almond croissant was baked freshthis morning. I believe him. It's warm when he hands it over, wrapped in wax paper, along with two cups of coffee that smell like actual coffee.
When I return, Kai is at the railing, staring out at the waves. Without the walls around him, without the glass and marble and the weight of everything waiting on his laptop, he looks younger. Lighter.
“Here.” I hand him his coffee. “And we're sharing this.”
He eyes the croissant. “That's enormous.”
“I have a sweet tooth. Don't judge me.”
“I'm not judging. I'm impressed.”
We find a bench set back from the railing, sheltered from the worst of the wind. Wood sun-warmed beneath us. Below, waves crash against the rocks in a rhythm older than anything.
We sit, shoulders almost touching, let the silence settle.
“I forgot what this feels like,” he says finally.
