“Couple of real road warriors,” another adds.
I shrug, trying my best to project absolutely-nothing-to-see-here energy. “That’s what happens when your van decides it hates you halfway through France.”
Mason looks between me and Kip, eyes narrowing with pure mischief. Or maybe suspicion. I’m too damn tired to tell the difference. “Uh-huh. And here I thought you wanted a scenic detour.”
Kip stiffens the barest bit, small enough that no one else notices it, big enough that I feel it like a shift in the air pressure. He clears his throat. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”
Right. Back to business. Back to the roles we know by muscle memory. No space for whatever the hell that cosy stretch between Calais and here was.
But then Kip glances at me, and the look in his eyes says he felt it too. All of it. And he has absolutely no idea what to do with that.
Neither do I.
Mason claps me on the shoulder. “Come on, Hutch. Help us unload before Ben flips his shit.”
“On it.” I move around to the back of the van, catching one last glimpse of Kip fixing his hair with that over-precise sweep of his fingers. Trying to pull himself back together. Trying not to look rattled.
But he is. And if I’m honest?
So am I.
There’s not much to grab, just my faded duffel and Kip’s neatly packed suitcase, but I circle to the back of the van anyway, mostly for the breathing room. Kip’s halfway throughtrying to tame his hair for the third time when Grady intercepts him.
“Walk with me,” Grady says, already turning. Kip shoots me a fleeting look, apologetic and uncertain, before following.
And that fast, whatever bubble we’d been in on the road pops cleanly around us.
Ben saunters over as I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Well, look at you two. Rolling in like you’ve survived a natural disaster.”
“Felt like one,” I mutter.
He sips his coffee, eyes glinting. “Uh-huh. And Handler Boy? Didn’t expect him to make it through two whole days with no schedule and you for company.”
“He managed,” I say.
Ben’s grin widens. “That why he looked one stiff breeze away from crumbling? The guy’s usually composed enough to survive a nuclear blast.”
I pull out Kip’s bag and hand it off to one of the interns who wandered over, clearly grateful for something to do.
“Long drive,” I say. “That’s all.”
Ben gives me a look that says he absolutely does not believe me. “If you say so.”
I don’t rise to it. Truth is, I don’t know what to say. Not here. Not with engines droning in the background, radios crackling, the whole team around us. Out there, between Switzerland and Calais and the tunnel, it was just us. Here, every look feels louder.
I glance across the lot. Kip’s standing with Grady, hands clasped behind his back, nodding along as Grady talks. But then his eyes flick to me. Just for a second.
And I feel it. Whatever the hell this thing is, it traveled with us. It’s here, threading between us even while we pretend to be exactly who we were before.
Ben elbows me. “Earth to Hutch.”
“Yeah.” I adjust my bag. “Coming.”
He falls into step beside me, mug still steaming. “Just checking you’re not about to float off into space. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The I-left-something-important-behind-but-don’t-know-how-to-get-it-back look.”
