In the front seat, neither of them says anything. The music fills the silence between them—easy, unhurried, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. It’s not uncomfortable, but it feels wasted.
I unfold my arms. Fold them again. “You guys wouldn’t cut us out, right?” It comes out easy, casual. The kind of question that only sounds like nothing if you’re not listening.
They answer at the same time.
“Absolutely not,” Gage says.
“Not a chance,” Cruz adds.
The rearview mirror shifts. Gage’s eyes find mine in it—steady, direct, not looking away. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Bell.”
I hold his gaze for a second. Then I nod once and look back out the window.
The desert keeps going. A few minutes later, a smear of light appears on the horizon—pale and buzzing, wrong against thedarkening sky. It takes shape slowly: a squat building, faded signage, a couple of parked cars that haven’t moved in a while.
“Mirage,” I murmur.
Gage huffs a quiet laugh. “Told you you’d make it.”
“Barely.”
He pulls off the road. Gravel pops under the tires as the station comes into full view, fluorescent lights humming their one flat note.
The gas station rises out of the desert in a wash of buzzing fluorescent light, the kind that flattens everything it touches and makes the world feel thinner than it should. A couple of trucks sit idling off to the side, engines ticking as they cool, heat still radiating off their hoods in slow, invisible waves. The building itself is low and square, windows smudged, interior just visible enough to promise bad coffee and worse decisions.
Gage pulls up to the pump and kills the engine. He’s out and reaching for the nozzle to fill the gas tank.
I push my door open. “I’m going to hit the bathroom. Don’t die without me,” I toss over my shoulder as I head toward the entrance.
Cruz doesn’t even look up. “No promises.”
I’m three steps toward the door before I register what just happened—the words, the rhythm of them, how easily they came back. My hand finds the door handle and I stop there for a second, not quite ready to go in.
The bell above the door gives a weak, tired jingle when I step inside. The air hits different in here—thick with burnt coffee, sugar, fryer grease that’s been lingering too long under a heat lamp. It sticks to the back of my throat in a way that makes me want to leave before I’ve even taken two steps.
I’m in the bathroom for the least amount of time possible. It’s not the worst gas station bathroom I’ve ever been in, but it’s in some serious need of TLC.
When I come back out, Gage is near the counter. Plastic bag in one hand, a couple of drinks tucked against his side, eyes already on the hallway I’m walking out of— like he positioned himself somewhere he’d see me coming.
He doesn’t move right away. Just watches me cross the floor toward him.
“You didn’t have to wait,” I say.
“I know.”
Something small and electric lifts under my ribs.
His fingers find mine, warm and loose, and he pulls me in without thinking about it—or at least that’s how it feels, like something that doesn’t require a decision. I tip my head back to look at him. Whatever is in his expression, I feel it before I can name it, settling low and quiet in my chest. He leans down.
Everything narrows to the space between us—and then someone slams into him hard enough to jostle the bag.
“Sorry, man. Burrito turned bad—” The guy doesn’t stop moving, just disappears down the hall at a near sprint, one hand clamped over his mouth like he’s fighting a losing battle.
The moment snaps.
I press my lips together, half laughing, half grimacing. “Okay—yeah. Let’s get out of here before that becomes our problem.”
Gage huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head once. I tug on his hand, already turning toward the door. He doesn’t budge.
