His gaze sharpens at that, something like approval flickering there, and I feel a spark of warmth bloom in my chest. This is the version of me I missed—the one who doesn’t just endure but pushes back.
That’s when I notice it.
Through the back window of the kitchen, partially obscured by the angle and the morning glare, there’s a shape that absolutely does not belong to the rest of the safehouse’s careful anonymity. Sleek. Dark. Familiar in a way that makes my pulse jump.
“Is that a motorcycle?” I ask, already halfway to the glass.
Zack goes very still. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m extremely serious,” I say, pressing my hands to the window like a kid spotting something shiny. “You had amotorcyclethis whole time and didn’t think to mention it?”
“This is not the day for that,” he replies immediately. “You were kidnapped less than twenty-four hours ago.”
“And yet,” I counter, turning back to him with a grin that feels dangerously alive, “I am standing, caffeinated, and feeling significantly better than expected. Which feels like a sign.”
He studies me for a long moment, weighing risk against reality, and I soften just a bit, stepping closer. “I don’t want to run,” I say gently. “I just want to feel the air again. I want to feel the world around me and not feel like I was been trapped for two days in a dark storage container.”
His jaw tightens, but I can see the conflict there, the way he wants to protect me from everything and also understands exactly what I’m asking for. Finally he exhales, letting his shoulders fall just ever so slightly, and I grin.
“If you evenstartto feel off?—”
“I will tell you,” I promise immediately. “No pretending. No pushing.”
Another pause. Then, “Helmet stays on. I don’t drive like an idiot.”
I beam. “I knew I liked you.”
The ride is everything I hoped it would be. The engine vibrates beneath us, solid and alive, and when we pull onto the open road and the wind tears past us, I laugh out loud without meaning to, the sound ripped free from my chest by sheer momentum. I wrap my arms around him instinctively, not out of fear, but because it feels right. Because being close to him like this feels grounding instead of confining.
For the first time since everything went wrong, my head clears completely.
No walls. No shadows. Just motion, sunlight, and the steady presence of the man in front of me, carrying us forward without hesitation. I feel free for the first time in forever, forgetting everything that’s been going on, but I know things aren’t the same anymore. And quite frankly, I don’t really think I want them to be the same, either.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DIRTY THOUGHTS
ZACK
Idon’t know if it’s the adrenaline or if Hazel has lost her mind, but there’s something different about her now, and I can’t consciously say I see an issue with it. I tell myself I’m focused on the road, but I catch myself looking at her in my side mirrors, a smile growing on my face.
The curve of the asphalt, the way the bike responds under my hands, the sound of the engine settling into a steady, familiar rhythm—those are things I understand. They’re measurable. Predictable. They don’t change just because someone important is sitting behind me, close enough I can feel her breathing through the leather of my jacket.
Hazel shifts slightly as we slow near the overlook, her hands tightening for a moment at my waist—not from fear, but balance—and the contact lands harder than it should. I pull in anyway, easing the bike to a stop where the city drops away into the distance and sky, the engine ticking softly as it cools. When Icut the ignition, the silence that follows feels too loud—like the world itself is holding its breath.
She swings her leg off easily, steadier than yesterday—steadier than I expected—and that alone sends a wave of something warm and sharp through my chest. She’s smiling when she takes her helmet off, hair a mess from the ride and eyes bright in a way that has nothing to do with pretending. It’s real. It’s earned. And seeing it makes something inside me tighten dangerously.
“That,” she says, breathless but laughing, “was exactly what I needed.”
I nod, because if I open my mouth right now, I don’t trust what will come out. I dismount slower than she did, acutely aware of how close we are standing, how little space there is between us now the bike is quiet and the wind has died down. The air feels charged, heavy with things neither of us have said yet.
“You okay?” I ask anyway, because that question still feels like my responsibility.
She meets my gaze without flinching. “Yeah. I really am.”
I believe her. That’s the problem.
She steps closer, close enough I can smell the soap she used this morning—clean and faint—and suddenly I’m too aware of everything. The way her fingers brush my jacket when she reaches for her helmet. The way her smile softens when she looks at me. The way my hands curl uselessly at my sides like they’re waiting for permission I don’t know how to give.
