Chapter 25 Adaline #2
It’s the kind of quiet that feels full, like both of us are carrying thoughts that don’t want to be spoken yet. Open land rolls past outside the window, sunlit and deceptively peaceful, and for a few minutes I just let myself exist inside that calm.
The question presses against the back of my throat for a long moment before I finally let it slip out, careful not to fracture whatever fragile calm we’ve built.
“What was it like,” I ask softly, “growing up here?”
Hunter’s grip tightens on the steering wheel.
Not dramatically. Not enough that someone who wasn’t watching him as closely as I am would notice. But I see it—the flex of his knuckles, the way his shoulders lock into place, instinctive and guarded.
The road curves gently ahead of us. A breeze slips in through the open window, lifting the edge of my hair.
For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
Then he exhales through his nose, slow and measured.
“It was…” He pauses. Searches. “It was an amazing place when I was a kid.”
The word amazing hangs between us, heavier than I expect.
I glance at him.
His eyes are still on the road, jaw set, expression carefully neutral. But there’s something underneath, something softer, almost wistful.
I tread carefully. “Amazing how?”
His mouth twitches, barely. “There was space. Freedom. People knew each other. I could ride my bike from one end of town to the other, and no one worried. Summers felt endless.” He swallows. “It felt... safe.”
The word lands in my chest and settles there, heavy. I hesitate, then gently push. “And now?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
The truck rolls on, tires humming against asphalt. The fields give way to clusters of trees, shadows flickering across the windshield.
I choose my words carefully. “You say it was amazing… but you know people don’t speak very kindly about you here anymore.”
His silence this time is different. He doesn’t tense. He doesn’t deflect immediately.
He just goes quiet.
So quiet I almost wish I hadn’t asked.
The air thickens, weighted with things he isn’t ready to say, things I suspect no one ever asked him to explain.
I watch his reflection in the side mirror, the tight line of his mouth, the shadow in his eyes.
I feel like I’ve brushed my fingers over a scar.
Finally, he exhales, a short, humorless breath.
“What,” he says lightly, too lightly, “are you fishing for gossip about my dark past now?”
I hear the joke. But I also hear what’s underneath it.
Something wounded, something tired. I shake my head quickly. “No. I just—”
I stop myself.
Pushing won’t get me anywhere. And worse, it might close something he just barely cracked open.
“I’m sorry,” I say instead. “You don’t have to tell me.”
His shoulders ease a fraction, relief flickering across his face before he masks it again.
“Good,” he says dryly. “Because it’s boring.”
I don’t believe him for a second. But I let it go.
The silence that follows is… different, softer, a bit more companionable.
The road narrows, trees pressing closer, sunlight filtering through leaves in dappled patterns.
Then, without warning, Hunter turns the wheel.
The truck veers off the main road onto a narrow dirt path, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
My head snaps toward him. “Uh—”
He glances at me, one brow lifting slightly. “You scared?”
I study his profile, the calm set of his mouth, the ease in his movements like this detour is intentional.
“No,” I say honestly. A corner of his mouth lifts. The word surprises both of us.
Hunter’s eyes flick to me, quick, searching, then back to the road. His jaw tightens, but this time it’s not defensive.
The truck bumps along the dirt road, trees thinning as the ground rises. The air feels clearer up here, cooler, carrying the scent of damp earth.
I break the quiet again, softer now. “You know,” I say quietly, “you’re not as terrifying as you pretend to be.”
He lets out a short laugh. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is,” I insist. “You just hide it well.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
The dirt road opens suddenly, and he slows the truck to a stop near the crest of a hill.
He turns off the engine, and the silence that follows is vast.
We both climb out, the ground uneven beneath our feet. A breeze sweeps across the hilltop, tugging at my hair, cool and clean against my skin.
Rose Hills stretches out below us, rooftops nestled between trees, the church steeple catching the sun, roads winding like veins through the town. From up here, it looks peaceful. Almost innocent.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
Hunter comes to stand beside me, close enough that I feel the warmth of him, even with the breeze between us.
“You haven’t seen the best part yet,” he says.
He steps forward, toward a higher edge of the hill, boots crunching softly against the dirt.
Then he turns back to me. His gaze holds mine, steady, searching, unguarded in a way I’ve never seen before.
“You coming?” he asks.
The question feels bigger than the moment.
Bigger than the view.
I look at him, really look at him, and realize this isn’t just about showing me the town.
It’s about trust.
Letting me step into a piece of his world, he doesn’t show anyone.
My heart beats faster. I’m excited, and terrified.
And somehow… ready.
“Yeah,” I say softly, stepping forward. “I’m coming.”
And as I move toward him, toward whatever waits just beyond that hilltop. I realize something quietly monumental.
I’m not running anymore.
I’m choosing to trust the man I was once afraid to see.