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Doesn’t press.
Just smooths the collar one last time, then lets her fingers drop.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go play gods.”
And I follow her into the night.
Because I’d follow heranywhere.
She stops walking.
Not a dramatic halt—just a subtle pause like she’s realized something no one else has considered. Her head tilts, that unreadable expression slipping over her face like moonlight across a blade. She turns to face me, one brow arched in hesitant curiosity.
“I don’t want this to come across rude or anything…” she says, drawing out the pause like a dare. “But do any of you actually know how todrive?”
I blink. The question shouldn’t surprise me—but it does. Maybe because it’s so human. So casual. So outside the warpath we’ve been on lately.
“Silas does,” I say.
And that’s all it takes.
She goesstill.Not afraid. Just… bracing. The kind of still that comes right before an explosion or a mistake you can’t unmake.
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear—a nervous habit she doesn’t even know she has—and glances down the hall like Silas might materialize out of thin air with a glitter steering wheel and a suicide pact.
“Is it agoodidea,” she asks slowly, “to let Silas drive?”
I snort, because evenIcan’t dress that up.
“He’s only crashed two cars.”
She whips her gaze back to me, blinking. “Only?”
“That was when he was learning,” I clarify. “Years ago. He’s better now.”
She doesn’t look reassured.
“And besides Ambrose and his deathtrap of a bike, Silas is the only one who knows how to drive stick.” I shrug. “Stick shift’s all we’ve got.”
She closes her eyes like she’s praying to a higher power that owes hereverythingand keeps giving her chaos instead.
“You may be immortal,” she mutters, “but I amnot.”
“Then don’t sit in the front seat,” I say dryly.
She groans. “You’re not helping.”
“Iamhelping. I’m not the one driving.”
“Which makes me want to thank you. And also set you on fire.”
I grin despite myself. “I’ll take the compliment.”
She shakes her head, muttering something about how she should’ve walked. But there’s a crack of a smile on her lips now. The kind that creeps in when she’s too tired to stay mad but too stubborn to admit she’s amused.
“I swear,” she mutters as we start walking again, “if he plays death metal or confesses his feelings mid-turn, I’m jumping out of the car.”
I stop.