Page 119 of Bend

Wolfe is stretched out beside me, taking up way more of the seat than one person reasonably should.

I’ve got the window, and he’s half leaned back against me, head resting near my shoulder while I absentmindedly run my fingers through his hair.

Every now and then, he tips his head just enough to make it easier for me.

Needy bastard. But a cute one.

I smile and give a small tug.

He hums like I’ve rewarded him.

Across the aisle, Thorne is a few rows over with one boot braced against the seat in front of him, sketchbook balanced on his thigh. He’s half listening to Sayshen while his pencil moves across the page, brows pulled together in that way they always do when he’s focused.

He glances up, catches me looking, and gives me the smallest smirk before dropping his eyes back to the sketch.

I give him one back.

Things are at least a little better now.

Not magically fixed, because none of us are that fucking functional, but better.

I’ve talked with all of them, and everything that had been sitting there making shit weird is finally out in the open, and somehow the world didn’t end.

Wild.

Draygon is a few rows up, shoulder against the window, scrolling through something on his phone. He glances back between the seat and the window, catching me looking, and his mouth pulls into that quiet little smile that makes my heart jump.

Yeah.

We’re okay.

All of us.

Which should probably make me feel calm.

Instead, I’m sitting on a shuttle halfway across the world with three men I’m definitely not normal about, headed toward one of the deadliest races on the planet.

So naturally, I’m thriving.

The shuttle pulls into Douglas nearly an hour later, and the first thing that fucks with me is how normal everything looks.

Houses, shops, and old stone walls.

People walking down the pavement like there aren’t motorcycles about to come screaming through here at speeds no sane person should be doing between buildings.

Then we get closer to the Grandstand, and everything changes.

Team vans and transporters crowd the area around the paddock.

Bikes sit under awnings while mechanics move between toolboxes, tire warmers and stacks of equipment. Officials are everywhere, checking passes and directing people around, and the closer we get to Glencrutchery Road, the louder it becomes.

Engines firing and people shouting over each other.

The actual pit lane runs right alongside the road.

That’s honestly the part that shocks me the most. There is no massive purpose-built track sitting behind all of this.

That old road is the track.