He glanced at my mouth, then away. He didn’t hide it. He chose not to stay there.
“And I know you didn’t strand me,” he said.
A laugh broke out of me, rough and unwilling. “You’re never letting that truck go.”
“Not for a while.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t throw the keys into the trees.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You sound very sure.”
“You wanted me to find it.” His voice dropped. “You didn’t want me stranded.”
I turned away first.
The woods were safer. Empty road. Pine trunks. Thin dust. No dark eyes reading the truth off my face.
“I didn’t have time to be that petty,” I said.
“Sure.”
“I hate you a little.”
“I earned some of it.”
The word some fit too well.
Dex moved beside me at the rail, leaving a careful foot of space between us. His forearm rested on the weathered wood. The crucifix slipped forward when he leaned, worn silver catching the sun.
My gaze dropped to it before I could stop myself.
His hand closed around it.
Not hard. Enough to tell me he’d noticed.
“Annette said not to turn this into pride,” I said.
“She says useful things at bad volume.”
“Are you?”
“What?”
“Turning it into pride.”
Dex faced the road. “No. I’m getting accurate.”
“That’s less comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
My mouth curved because jokes came faster than anything honest. “You always bring this much warmth to a rescue?”
Dex turned his head.
For one breath, the porch lost every sound except the wind.
