His mouth pulls to one side. “Still not wrong.”
Before I can argue, he plugs in his own device, and a soft strumming begins, gentle and familiar. It takes me all of two seconds to recognize it.
I turn slowly toward him. “No.”
He grins without looking at me. “Yes.”
“Jonathan.”
“Delilah.”
“‘Hey There Delilah’?” I ask, incredulous, even as warmth blooms in my chest so fast it catches me off guard. “You cannot be serious.”
He finally glances at me, smug as hell. “You’ve been quiet enough for one morning.”
“Oh my God.”
Then he starts singing.
His voice is low, smooth, but carrying that little rough edge that makes it all his own. He doesn’t overdo it. Doesn’t turn it into a performance. He sings like he’s telling me a secret badly disguised as a joke. The words, the hum between verses, the easy confidence of it—it’s intimate in a way that feels almost unfair. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and is pretending not to.
I blink against the sudden surprise of how… normal it feels. How safe it is. How easy it would be to sit in this moment and let him make me forget the rest of the world exists for three minutes and fourteen seconds.
I laugh before I realize I’m doing it, a light, unguarded sound that surprises me even more than him singing. My shoulders loosen, the tight coil of worry inside me unwinding just enough to let the song in.
“You’re really doing this,” I say, shaking my head, but there’s a grin tugging at my lips I can’t hide fast enough.
He keeps driving, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the beat against the console. “What, you thought I was gonna let you sit there and overthink in silence?”
“I can overthink with music too.”
“Not withthismusic.”
I snort. “This is emotional blackmail.”
“This,” he says, singing the next line under his breath before speaking again, “is morale management.”
“That’s not a real term.”
“It is if I say it like I believe it.”
Somehow, that’s enough. I start humming along, softly at first, letting my voice blend with his. Then, when he turns the volume up just a little and sings louder, laughing under his breath at my offbeat timing, I feel it—my chest lightening, the weight that’s been clinging to me for days beginning to loosen. The fear doesn’t disappear. It just steps out of the center of the room for once.
Without thinking, I lift my hands, start swaying in my seat. It’s silly. It’s childish. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not thinking about the nightmares, the threats, the man who caused me pain. I’m just here, singing and laughing with him, in a car that smells like leather and coffee and the faint smoke that never quite leaves his jacket.
Jon notices immediately. His grin widens, warm and slow, and he starts moving in his seat, matching me. Humming, swaying, tapping the wheel in time.
“Oh, no,” I say, pointing at him. “You do not get to act like this is normal.”
“It is normal.”
“For who?”
“For me,” he says. “I’m charming in confined spaces.”
I laugh harder. “That’s the most arrogant thing you’ve said all week.”
“All week?”
