“Careful,” I say. “You’re pushing it.”
She laughs, bright and unrestrained, and something in my chest loosens in response. This is new. Not her—she’s always been like this—but me, letting it land instead of bracing for the moment it disappears. Two days ago, I would’ve been cataloging exits, watching mirrors, replaying every mistake in my head. I still am, a little. That part of me doesn’t shut off. But it’s quieter now, edged back just enough to let something else through. I let her in, something that after what happened to Sam and I, I swore never to do again. I let Lincoln in years ago, and he came to me when we joined Broken Halos. Lincoln and Nora are my people, Cameron, and hell, even Leyla, became my people. I was adamant that I would never again let anyone else in, but here is this tiny spitfire who eats attitude for breakfast, but is also soft and beautiful, who has started to let me believe that there might actually be peace again. That I can maybe be happy. Cameron would have a field day.
We’re headed to Philly because the map finally makes sense again. Because Cameron and Leyla aren’t dead—they were silenced. And if what Lincoln shared with me is true, they are actually alive. Because the real trail doesn’t scream for attention; it waits. And because for once, we’re not reacting, we’re moving with intention.
Hazel turns the radio up, some ridiculous pop song filling the car, and starts singing like she doesn’t care how off-key she is. I open my mouth to complain, and then don’t. Instead, I shake my head and let the corner of my mouth lift.
“You know all the words,” I say.
“Obviously,” she replies. “I contain multitudes.”
She glances over at me, catches the look on my face, and softens just a fraction. Not sad. Not heavy. Just real. “You okay over there, tough guy?”
I nod once. “Yeah. I am.”
And I mean it.
There’s something different about this morning. About her. About us. The closeness crept up quietly, built in moments that didn’t demand attention—late-night conversations, shared silence, the simple fact of choosing to sit beside each other instead of apart. I didn’t plan for it. I don’t plan for anything that isn’t a threat assessment or an exit strategy.
But here she is; alive, and bright, and taking up space in my passenger seat like she belongs there. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that maybe I don’t have to carry everything alone.
She nudges my arm. “When we get to Philly, I call dibs on food. You look like a man who forgets to eat when he’s brooding.”
“I don’t brood.”
“You absolutely brood,” she insists. “It’s very intense. Very mysterious. Very bad for blood sugar. Can’t have my Gramps getting diabetes.”
I laugh again, easier this time, and she beams like that was the goal all along.
The road curves east, the city still hours away, and for now that’s okay. For now, there’s sunlight, and bad music, and thesound of Hazel talking with her hands like she’s telling a story the whole world deserves to hear.
Whatever waits for us in Philly—whatever truth Cameron and Leyla got close enough to die for—we’ll face it when we get there.
But this morning?
This morning, I drive.
She laughs.
And for once, I let my guard rest instead of tightening it.
Just for a mile or two.
The laughter fades into something quieter. Not awkward, just settled. Like the road finally found its rhythm and decided to keep it. Hazel turns the radio down without me asking, which tells me she’s thinking about something. She always does that when she’s about to ask a real question; gives it space, like she doesn’t want to ambush me with it.
“So,” she says, stretching the word out gently, “you don’t talk about yourself much.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “That’s not a question.”
She smiles, soft and patient. “Okay. Why don’t you talk about yourself much?”
I exhale slowly, watching the miles roll past, feeling the familiar instinct to deflect rise up out of habit. Joke. Change the subject. Tighten the guard. It’s what I’ve done for years. But this morning feels different, and I’m tired of carrying whole chapters of my life like contraband.
“My parents died when I was twenty,” I say, the words landing between us with a quiet finality. “Car crash.”
Hazel doesn’t gasp or interrupt. She just waits, her face gentle with care and not pity, which is what usually happens when I talk about this.
“They were coming back from a late shift,” I continue, my voice steady even though my grip tightens on the steering wheel, my knuckles white as the leather creaks. “Truck ran a red light. Hit them head-on. It was fast. Clean, they said. Like that was supposed to help.”
