I look at him sweetly. “Do you want me to rank them?”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Absolutely not.”
I don’t know why, but something about seeing him like this—carefree, almost vulnerable in a way he never lets anyone see—melts the last bit of tension from my shoulders. He looksyounger when he laughs. Less haunted. Less like a man built entirely out of duty and grit and controlled damage.
We sing through the chorus together, loud and off-key, laughing when we miss a beat. I lift my hands higher, doing a little dance in the seat, leaning toward him like we’re sharing some ridiculous, private joke. He laughs, shakes his head, and leans closer, his arm brushing mine. The contact is small, accidental maybe, but it sends a soft pulse of awareness through me anyway.
And just for a moment, I let myself forget everything outside the car. Forget Mikhail, forget the party, forget the danger waiting for us. There’s just the music, just his voice, and the sun creeping higher over the base as the road unwinds in front of us.
When the song ends, we’re both a little breathless from laughing, my hair a mess, my cheeks warm, and I can’t stop smiling. I glance at him, expecting something cocky, some teasing remark about my singing or my timing or the fact that I went all in on the chorus like I didn’t have a shred of pride left.
Instead, he keeps that small grin, eyes soft but still alert, and says, almost casually, “See? Music fixes everything.”
I laugh again, shaking my head. “Not everything.”
His fingers drum once on the wheel. “No. But it can buy you a minute.”
“A minute?”
“A good one,” he says. “Sometimes that’s enough to keep the bad ones from piling up.”
The answer is so unexpectedly honest that it steals the joke right out of me. I look at him more carefully. “Is that what you do?”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “Sometimes.”
“With that song?”
Now he snorts. “No. That one was just for you.”
The warmth in my chest deepens, slower this time. More dangerous. I look away before he can see it too clearly on my face. “That was either very sweet or deeply annoying.”
“Can’t it be both?”
“It usually is with you.”
He smiles at that, and for a second the car goes quiet in the nicest way. Not empty. Not tense. Just full of things we don’t have to force.
Then he reaches over and taps two fingers lightly against my knee. Brief. Grounding. Gone before it can become something else. “You okay?”
The question is simple. It isn’t, really. Not with him. Not after last night. Not with today waiting for us both like a loaded weapon wrapped in family smiles.
I stare out the windshield a second longer before answering. “Right now?”
“Yeah.”
I inhale. Let it out slow. “Right now… I think I am.”
He nods once, like that matters more than he’s willing to say. “Good.”
“And you?” I ask.
That gets a sideways look. “You asking if I’m okay or if I’m armed?”
“Both.”
His grin returns, smaller this time. “Armed, yes. Okay enough.”
“Reassuring.”
