He’s pacing now, jacket still on, tension rolling off him in waves. I half expect smoke to start pouring out of his ears.
“How are you not losing your mind right now?” he demands, turning on me. “We’re stranded in the middle of nowhere. I’ve got meetings stacked, calls I’m missing, and you’re—” He gestures wildly. “You’re acting like this is some sort of holiday.”
I rock back on my heels, folding my arms. “Because losing my mind won’t fix the van, will it? Or make the parts appear any faster.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s exactly the point.” My voice comes out harsher than I mean it to. “You spend so much time worrying about what’s next, you forget you’re allowed to breathe for five bloody minutes.”
Kip blinks at that, not expecting me to push back. His shoulders are still tight, but his voice lowers. “You think I don’t know that? I can’t afford to breathe, Hutch. The second I do, someone sharper, hungrier, better will be right there to swoop in and take my place.”
That hits me straight in the gut. For a moment, all I can do is look at him, at the crack in his armour.
“Maybe,” I say, the harshness in my tone tempered by his admission. “But that doesn’t mean you have to drive yourself into the ground proving it.”
The words hang there, filling the quiet like smoke. Neither of us moves. The lone bed sits in the middle of the room, impossibly small, waiting.
He drags a hand through his hair and turns away, unable to meet my eyes.
“You don’t get it.” His voice has gone raw now, his guard stripped away. “You can afford to fall apart. I can’t.”
“Right.” It comes out clipped. “Because I’m what, some carefree idiot with nothing to lose?”
I take a step closer before I realize I’m doing it. “You think you’re the only one with something to prove? I laugh because if I don’t, I’ll lose it. Because someone has to keep the bloody ship afloat while you’re busy trying to be perfect.”
He exhales, something between a scoff and a shudder. The fight drains out of him as fast as it came. “I hate that you make it sound so simple.”
“It isn’t simple.” I sink down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees. “It’s survival.”
For a long moment, there’s only the hiss of the radiator and the faint clatter of dishes from the inn’s kitchen below. Then he sits beside me, careful not to let our shoulders touch.
“Maybe I don’t know how to do that,” he says quietly.
I glance at him, at the careful way he’s staring at the floor as though the answers might be hiding there. “Then let someone help you learn.”
He huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “And you’re volunteering for that job?”
I shrug. “Already started, haven’t I?”
He doesn’t answer, but his shoulders relax a little, and the heaviness in the room lightens.
He tips his head back, eyes closing, teetering on the edge of control. “You’re impossible.”
“Good thing you’re used to me, then.” I push myself up, stretching toward the nightstand where the key still sits. The room’s small enough that I can feel his pull, even from a step away. “It’s one night. We’ll manage.”
He looks up at me, tired and tense all at once. “You said that last night, too. And we had two beds there.”
“True,” I say, mouth twitching. “But that place also had carpet stains older than I am, so I’m calling this an upgrade.”
He doesn’t smile. Just exhales through his nose, the sound tight. “You don’t take anything seriously, do you?”
“Sure, I do,” I tell him. “Just not the bits I can’t fix.”
He mutters something under his breath and presses his lips together, holding back the rest of it.
“Look,” I say matter-of-factly. “I’ll keep to my side. Promise not to hog the covers. I’ll even wear a shirt to bed if that’ll help you sleep.”
That earns me a look, flat and unimpressed but not entirely cold. “You’re not funny.”
