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“We are our own colorful army of badasses,” she declared proudly after slapping a glittery alien sticker on Bessy’s side door.
Even Poppy joined in.
She helped decorate Leon’s blue truck with neon-green flames along the sides using house paint they found in someone’s garage. Leon should’ve been mad. Or at least mildly horrified.
Instead, he picked up a brush, crouched beside her, and helped her finish, a smirk glued to his face.
I grab a fresh shirt and pants from my backpack next to Joanie’s spare green Chucks. Since Bessy is packed floor to ceiling with supplies now, Joanie has been staying with us in Max to give Lyla and Jacob space in Lucy, and I don’t mind. Lyla and Joanie are the reason Poppy, Jacob, and I made it out of that jail alive, and somewhere between rescue plans, gunfire, and Lyla’s terrifying competence, Jacob fell for her hard. Now Bessy holds supplies, Lyla and Jacob have Lucy, Joanie has us, and somehow it works.
Poppy has someone to laugh with. Someone who treats her like a kid and not just one more fragile thing to protect.
Even if that someone swears like a trucker.
Poppy disappears across camp, her laugh cutting through the noise. For one breath, I can almost believe we’re okay.
You wouldn’t have made it far anyway.
I climb into the trunk and change quickly, tugging my new purple long-sleeved shirt into place harder than I need to.
“Get it together,” I mutter.
I slip my jeans on and my boots. My hand drifts to my thigh. Fingers press into the scar. I climb out and slam the trunk shut. The sound cracks through the camp.
The air shifts behind me.
Maybe it’s the unshakable quiet he carries with him. Maybe some part of me already knows the shape of Leon.
I close my eyes, then turn.
Leon stands a few feet away, loaded down with weapons like always. Bow across his back. A sheath of arrows poking up over one shoulder. Hatchet strapped to his thigh. Gun holstered at his waist. My rifle with a small ammo bag attached.
But this time, there’s something different.
The crowbar in his hands.
My crowbar.
He lifts his hand and gestures for me to follow him, already turning and heading into the woods.
No note. No explanation.
“Already? Where?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
When he doesn’t answer, I grip the fresh shirt tighter. Embarrassment prickles hot under my skin. Frustration follows. Then something sharper. Something that feels too much like being seen and too much like wanting him to keep looking anyway.
“Leon,” I call, low enough that no one else turns, “I’m not in the mood for cryptic lumberjack behavior.”
My muscles protest right along with me, still shaky and wrung out from Trish’s cardio torture.
His shoulders shift.
Barely.
But I’d swear he’s amused.
He looks back at me over one shoulder, green eyes catching the dull light through the trees. Then he holds up the crowbar again and gives me one slow, deliberate look.
Come on.
