The rain is coming down harder by the time we load into the truck, a drumming against the roof that feels like the world trying to calm itself down.
Marshall drives. Hands on the wheel, shoulders squared, posture rigid. He’s holding himself in check.
Wyatt takes the front passenger seat, already wiping fog from his glasses. I slide into the back and immediately regret it.
Not because it’s uncomfortable. Because it’s quiet.
The kind of quiet that hums with things nobody wants to say.
The truck smells of damp jackets and coffee and the faint, stubborn ghost of smoke that won’t quite leave our clothes. Myleggings cling slightly, and the sensation makes me painfully aware of my body in a way I wish I wasn’t.
I fold my hands in my lap and stare out the window.
Trees blur past in shades of green and gray, rain streaking the glass and turning the world into something soft and indistinct. I latch onto that, grateful for anything that keeps me from looking at the front seat.
From thinking about the hallway.
About Jesse.
I can still feel him if I let myself. The heat of his body, the certainty of his hands, the way my own body responded like it had been waiting for him to stop holding back.
And then Marshall’s voice.
I swallow hard and press my thumb into my palm until it aches.
This is fine.
People get stressed. People make mistakes.
The truck jolts over a pothole, and I suck in a breath before I can stop myself.
“You okay back there?” Wyatt asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Yes,” I say too quickly. “Just startled.”
Marshall’s grip tightens on the wheel. Just a fraction. I notice anyway.
The silence stretches again until I can’t stand it.
“My bees should be fine,” I say, mostly to the rain. “The far pasture’s greener, and the wind was blowing away from them last night.”
Wyatt nods. “Fire crews said the same. Moisture helps.”
“And the rain,” I add. “That’s… good.”
“Yes,” he agrees softly. “Very good.”
The truck keeps moving.
I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how close we all are in this small space. The brush of my knee against the seatback. The flex of Marshall’s shoulder as he turns the wheel. The way Wyatt’s fingers tap absently against his thigh, a nervous habit he probably doesn’t even realize he has.
I wonder if they feel it too. The tension.
The rain eases as we near town, the downpour softening into mist. Smoke still curls in the distance, but it’s thinner now, less aggressive.
Hope sneaks in before I can stop it.
When the ranch comes into view, my breath catches.
