I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, running through half a dozen plans for what to do if the night went sideways. Not that it mattered. The real decisions were always made in the gut, not the brain.
I watched the minutes tick by, heart rate steady even as the rest of me vibrated with the urge to move. Every time the building’s doors cracked open, I scanned for Danny’s silhouette. It took three false alarms—two women in padded parkas, one bearded guy who looked like he’d once eaten a calculus professor—before I finally saw him.
He walked fast, head down, a backpack clutched so tight I thought the straps might snap. Under the sodium lights, his hair looked paler than ever, almost silver. Even at a distance, I could sense the tension in his frame, the way he tried to fold in on himself, smaller and smaller, like maybe the world would forget he was there if he just didn’t make a sound.
Dennis saw him too. The truck’s headlights flicked on, twin searchlights. Danny paused at the edge of the lot, just outside the cone of light. He scanned the parking lot, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a hit.
I made my move.
Engine on, headlights low, I rolled up slow—enough to be seen, not enough to scare. Danny’s head jerked up, eyes wide, and for a split second I saw panic before recognition hit. He didn’t smile, but his body loosened a fraction.
I dropped the window, leaned out. “Need a ride?” I asked, as casual as I could manage, even though my pulse was drumming.
He hesitated, and in that gap, Dennis’s engine revved—a deliberate, mean noise that carried clear across the lot. I saw the way Danny flinched, saw the choice in his eyes. Run to Dennis or risk the strange alpha with the bad jokes and unfinished wiring jobs.
He chose me. Thank fuck.
He slid into the cab, careful not to slam the door. His scent filled the space instantly, washing over the last traces of sweat and old coffee. I wanted to drown in it. Instead, I stared straight ahead, trying to look like this was nothing.
I thought maybe the cab of my truck would be safer, but the second Danny got in, it was like lighting a match in a dynamite shed. Every molecule of air was heavy with him—sweet, herbal, that green basil thing, but also a rawer scent underneath that made it hard to think in straight lines. My eyes wanted to linger on his wrists, the pale flash of his throat.
I kept them glued to the road instead.
“Hey,” he said, soft but steady. The lights caught the shadow under his eye, the echo of the bruise I’d spotted days ago.
“Hey, yourself. You always walk home this late?”
He shook his head. “Dennis usually picks me up. But sometimes he’s…”
I let the sentence die, didn’t make him say it.
“Yeah. I get it.” I put the truck in gear, crept out of the lot like we had all the time in the world. In the rearview, I saw Dennis’s truck peel out, tires squealing like a wounded thing.
We drove in silence at first, headlights carving a tunnel through the night. If I strained, I could hear the soft whir of his breath, barely louder than the engine. His hands never left his backpack, fingers white-knuckled around the straps.
I wanted to say something, anything, but the words I had were all wrong. I ran a quick diagnostic: Could I make a joke about night classes? Would he think I was stalking him? Which,in all fairness, I was. Should I comment on the weird cloud of smoke that hung over the gas station, or ask if his brother always acted like a rabid wolverine?
Before I could decide, Danny spoke, voice softer than the hum of the tires. “You ever get bored out there?” He nodded vaguely toward the darkness, meaning the ranch, or maybe the whole of Montana.
I laughed, a short bark. “You ever get bored in here?” I gestured at the town, at the nothingness we were driving through.
He grinned, small and quick. “Point.”
I relaxed a fraction. “Honestly, the boredom is what I like. Nobody expects you to be interesting. All you have to do is show up, do your job, and not set fire to anything important.” I shot him a look. “You?”
He looked away, tracking something in the darkness. “I used to think I’d die if I didn’t get out of Black Butte. Now I’m just trying to survive long enough to leave with a degree.” His laugh was brittle. “Kind of pathetic, huh?”
“Not even close,” I said, more sharply than I meant. “You got a plan and you’re sticking to it. Most people wouldn’t even try.”
He seemed startled by that, like nobody had ever told him sticking it out was an achievement. “What about you? Didn’t you ever want to leave?”
I considered. “I did. I left for ten years. And you know what I found out? Turns out, the only thing worse than Montana is everywhere else.”
He smiled again, wider this time. The tension in his body melted, just a little. “What made you come back?”
“Family.” I paused, then added, “And the promise of never having to eat city tomatoes again.”
That got a real laugh, bright and open. The sound did things to my chest that I did not approve of.
