Page 68 of Silent Shadows

Tuesday night, the crew ends up crowded around the tiny dinette during a thunderstorm.

The desert rain slams against the roof hard enough to rattle the entire Machine while lightning flashes through the windows in sharp white bursts.

Jax is editing footage.

Taylor’s painting Daisy’s nails a glittery red for reasons nobody fully understands as she answers Daisy’s “Would you rather?” questions. I catch Daisy asking if Taylor would rather “bone the Moth Man or El Chupacabra” and chuckle to myself.

Finding these little glimmers of her weirdness is becoming my favorite part of every day. They're never performed. I can feel her getting comfortable letting this side of herself show. Just Daisy, saying whatever ridiculous thought wanders into her head, completely unaware she's handing me another reason to fall for her.

I’m pretending not to listen as I start making grilled cheese sandwiches. It seems that thunderstorms activate my Midwest comfort-food instincts.

“Do you guys ever feel too close? Because this is super intimate,” Daisy says, directing her question at the group.

I glance up from the stove. “The grilled cheese?”

“The whole thing.” She gestures around the Machine. “This.”

Taylor nods solemnly while painting another nail. “Trauma bonding.”

“We are not trauma-bonded,” Maya says without looking up.

“Yet,” Jax adds, arching an eyebrow.

The thunder cracks overhead, loudly enough to shake the windows.

Daisy flinches.

I slide the plate with the first grilled cheese toward her.

Her eyes flick to me.

“Thanks,” she says, taking a bite. Then groans softly. And just like that, every coherent thought leaves my body.

The problem with kissing Daisy Bennett once is that now every absentminded smile, every laugh, every bite of food draws my attention straight back to her mouth.

And there's a dangerous, primitive part of me that wants to be the reason she makes that sound again.

I know how easily she fits against me. How naturally my hand found the back of her neck. How instinctive it felt to pull her closer. How her lips felt on mine. I can only dream of where else her mouth might⁠—

“That’s embarrassing,” I mutter, cutting the thought short.

Of course Daisy hears me. “What is?” she asks.

I fumble for an answer. “The… the sound you just made over grilled cheese.”

“Take it as a compliment, Adler.”

I laugh quietly despite myself and turn back toward the stove before I can stare too long. Again.

By Wednesday morning, Daisy is pretty integrated into the routine.

Not seamlessly. She still complains every time Taylor wakes up with “rise and grind, sluts.” She still gets dirt in places that should be physically impossible. And she still records voice notes at alarming intervals.

But now, she knows where things go. She refills the coffee filters without asking. She hands Jax batteries before he realizes he needs them. She and Maya have developed some terrifyingly efficient system for organizing field notes that involves color-coded tabs and mutual judgment.

With each new habit she picks up, a piece of the podcast persona slips away a little, revealing more of her. And sometime around the afternoon, I realize the Machine feels wrong when she’s not in it.

The realization hits me while she’s outside with Taylor learning how to identify animal tracks.