Don’t want to notice the van either.
But I do.
Her late uncle left it to her.
It’s one of those old conversion models. Late nineties, maybe early 2000s.
Boxy frame, solid bones.
Someone’s put work into it—upgraded suspension, reinforced panels, solar rig on top if I’m seeing that right.
Custom job.
Smart modifications.
Not something thrown together for a weekend trip.
Something built to live in.
Something built because there wasn’t another option.
My stomach turns.
Yeah.
I recognize it now.
Not just the van.
What it means.
I drag my gaze away before I can stare too long and find something else I don’t want to see.
Sawyer’s still watching me.
Not saying anything yet. Just measuring. Waiting.
Then, finally—he huffs out a sigh.
“Fuck, Benji, call your lawyer,” he says, voice low, steady, like he’s already five steps ahead of where I’m standing. “Review the papers. Get answers.”
I don’t respond.
Because that’s the easy part.
Paperwork. Legal shit. Lines on a page.
That’s not what’s standing ten feet away from me right now.
Sawyer’s gaze flicks past me, toward the porch where Bit is still talking to Esme like they’re old friends catching up instead of two women standing in the middle of a damn emotional minefield.
His jaw tightens.
There it is.
That shift.
Not anger.
