Chapter 20 #2
Somehow, that’s enough. I start humming along, softly at first, letting my voice blend with his.
Then, when he turns the volume up just a little and sings louder, laughing under his breath at my offbeat timing, I feel it—my chest lightening, the weight that’s been clinging to me for days beginning to loosen.
The fear doesn’t disappear. It just steps out of the center of the room for once.
Without thinking, I lift my hands, start swaying in my seat.
It’s silly. It’s childish. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not thinking about the nightmares, the threats, the man who caused me pain.
I’m just here, singing and laughing with him, in a car that smells like leather and coffee and the faint smoke that never quite leaves his jacket.
Jon notices immediately. His grin widens, warm and slow, and he starts moving in his seat, matching me. Humming, swaying, tapping the wheel in time.
“Oh, no,” I say, pointing at him. “You do not get to act like this is normal.”
“It is normal.”
“For who?”
“For me,” he says. “I’m charming in confined spaces.”
I laugh harder. “That’s the most arrogant thing you’ve said all week.”
“All week?”
I look at him sweetly. “Do you want me to rank them?”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Absolutely not.”
I don’t know why, but something about seeing him like this—carefree, almost vulnerable in a way he never lets anyone see—melts the last bit of tension from my shoulders. He looks younger when he laughs. Less haunted. Less like a man built entirely out of duty and grit and controlled damage.
We sing through the chorus together, loud and off-key, laughing when we miss a beat.
I lift my hands higher, doing a little dance in the seat, leaning toward him like we’re sharing some ridiculous, private joke.
He laughs, shakes his head, and leans closer, his arm brushing mine.
The contact is small, accidental maybe, but it sends a soft pulse of awareness through me anyway.
And just for a moment, I let myself forget everything outside the car. Forget Mikhail, forget the party, forget the danger waiting for us. There’s just the music, just his voice, and the sun creeping higher over the base as the road unwinds in front of us.
When the song ends, we’re both a little breathless from laughing, my hair a mess, my cheeks warm, and I can’t stop smiling.
I glance at him, expecting something cocky, some teasing remark about my singing or my timing or the fact that I went all in on the chorus like I didn’t have a shred of pride left.
Instead, he keeps that small grin, eyes soft but still alert, and says, almost casually, “See? Music fixes everything.”
I laugh again, shaking my head. “Not everything.”
His fingers drum once on the wheel. “No. But it can buy you a minute.”
“A minute?”
“A good one,” he says. “Sometimes that’s enough to keep the bad ones from piling up.”
The answer is so unexpectedly honest that it steals the joke right out of me. I look at him more carefully. “Is that what you do?”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “Sometimes.”
“With that song?”
Now he snorts. “No. That one was just for you.”
The warmth in my chest deepens, slower this time. More dangerous. I look away before he can see it too clearly on my face. “That was either very sweet or deeply annoying.”
“Can’t it be both?”
“It usually is with you.”
He smiles at that, and for a second the car goes quiet in the nicest way. Not empty. Not tense. Just full of things we don’t have to force.
Then he reaches over and taps two fingers lightly against my knee. Brief. Grounding. Gone before it can become something else. “You okay?”
The question is simple. It isn’t, really. Not with him. Not after last night. Not with today waiting for us both like a loaded weapon wrapped in family smiles.
I stare out the windshield a second longer before answering. “Right now?”
“Yeah.”
I inhale. Let it out slow. “Right now… I think I am.”
He nods once, like that matters more than he’s willing to say. “Good.”
“And you?” I ask.
That gets a sideways look. “You asking if I’m okay or if I’m armed?”
“Both.”
His grin returns, smaller this time. “Armed, yes. Okay enough.”
“Reassuring.”
“I try.”
I settle deeper into the seat, still smiling despite myself, and let the quiet return without rushing to fill it.
The road curves. Trees blur by. Sunlight warms the dashboard in pale gold bands.
My nerves haven’t vanished. My fear hasn’t disappeared.
But it isn’t owning me either. Not right this second.
And maybe that’s all either of us can ask for.
When I look at him again, his expression has shifted—not harder, but more focused. The humor hasn’t disappeared. It’s just tucked itself beneath the surface where his instincts live. Captain again. Protector again. The man who can sing a ridiculous love song one minute and plan for blood the next.
He catches me watching him. “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
I smile faintly. “I was just thinking it’s unfair that you can be this irritating before nine a.m.”
He laughs under his breath. “You’ve always thought too highly of me.”
“No,” I say, softer than I mean to. “I think that’s the problem.”
His gaze flicks to me, quick and sharp, but before he can answer the gates of the club come into view ahead—wrought iron, old stone, manicured hedges, the whole place dressed up in money and memory and expectation.
The world we’re driving into is polished and pretty and dangerous in ways that won’t show up on the guest list.
The smile fades from both of us by degrees. Not all at once. Just enough.
He slows the car, one hand tightening on the wheel. “Party’s over the second I say it is,” he says quietly. “You stay where I can see you. If anything feels off—anything—you tell me.”
The warmth doesn’t leave entirely. It just sharpens around the edges. “You planning to boss me around all day?”
“Yes.”
I huff a laugh. “At least you’re consistent.”
His mouth curves one last time. “For now, it’s enough.”
And God help me, sitting there with the sun on my knees and his stupid song still echoing in my head, I think maybe he’s right.