Chapter 18
chapter
eighteen
MILES
By the time we reach the RV, we are all unrecognizable.
Mud to the knees. Mud on packs. Mud in hair. Mud in places mud should not be able to access. Daisy’s flannel and leggings are soaked through with mud on one side, her teeth chattering no matter how tightly she clenches her jaw.
I am handling this like a normal person. I am not spiraling.
“Let’s do truck stop showers today,” Maya says. “I think it would cost us more to clean our mud out of the Machine plumbing, anyway.”
Daisy looks at Maya with wide eyes.
“Truck stop, what now?” she asks, hand on her hip.
“You’re going to have a whole new appreciation for gas stations after this, girl,” says Taylor, giddy with excitement.
“It’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Let’s grab what we need, then head over.” I wave everyone toward the truck-stop gas station a few blocks up the street.
When we make it there, the rain is now a light mist. The clerk gives us one up-and-down look, shakes her head, and swears.
Truck stop showers are objectively sad. I know this. The kind of knowledge earned after years of fieldwork, fourteen-hour drives, bad coffee, and too many roadside bathrooms that smell aggressively of lemon cleaner and loneliness.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead like they’re disappointed in everyone present. The tile is always damp in a way that feels suspicious. The towels are thin enough that I wonder how they qualify as towels at all.
Truck stop showers exist for one purpose: Get clean. Reset. Leave.
No one lingers in a truck stop shower because they’re having a meaningful life experience.
At least, that’s what I’ve always thought.
But standing in the hallway outside watching Daisy fight off a shiver, my thoughts on the place have changed a little. As have my plans.
I handle paying and hand out everyone’s tickets. Luckily it’s a slow afternoon, so everyone gets their number called right away and peels out one by one to their stall to feel human again.
She looks up at me. “So do I get a ticket to this freak show?”
“Oh, you’re getting a ticket to a show,” I say with a smirk.
“You totally only got one ticket for us, didn’t you?”
“One shower, but don’t worry—two towels.” I grab the spare from my bag and hand it to her, still smiling.
She doesn’t return the smile, but when her fingers brush mine, I know we both feel the electricity.
“You should get warm,” I say.
“I hear you.”
“I mean it.”
“I know, Miles. But I’m still weirded out that you shared the next episode with your brother. It’s not a big deal, but you should have asked. I’m not used to… this.”
“You mean you haven’t had a brother come back after a year locked up in Area 51, and then wanted to show him what the girl you’re falling for is working on because it’s pretty amazing?” I say before I can stop myself.
She cocks her head, eyes wide, before retorting. “You mean you haven't gone out on assignment to revive your podcast, met a charming Bigfoot hunter you weren't supposed to catch feelings for, then gotten a little spooked when he shared your work with his brother, someone you barely know?”
She sighs deeply enough that I know her anger is deescalating.
“Sorry. I’m sorry—you’re right. I should have asked you first,” I continue.
“You should have. But… thanks for being proud of me.” She shivers again.
“Daisy, you’re still shaking.”
Her gaze lifts, exasperated. “Are you going to keep saying that until I stop?”
I lean past her as if checking on the clerk, and my mouth brushes her ear. “I'm going to keep saying it until I'm the one making you shake.”
I pull back to see the corner of her mouth curve. “Okay, Mr. Park Ranger.”
I hear myself say, “You like that.”
Silence.
Immediate, catastrophic silence.
Daisy’s eyes flare.
“Number 821,” the clerk’s voice booms overhead through the speakers.
Heat cuts through the cold air between us.
I grab her hand and walk toward our stall. “I know how long they all take in truck-stop showers. We’ve got time.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Very professional.”
I open the door, gesturing for her to walk in. “Always.”
We walk in, standing in the “dry” section of the stall beside a bench and a sink. Against the back wall is the shower, shielded from view by a cheap plastic shower curtain.
This shower is not built for two people. It’s barely built for one road-weary trucker.
The second I lock the door behind us, the shower curtain sticks to my shoulder, Daisy bumps her elbow against the wall, and my bag hits the bench hard enough that it makes a sad creak.
She starts laughing. Really laughing.
Head tipped back, one hand braced against my chest, she reaches behind me into the shower and turns the water on to warm it up.
Then she takes my glasses off and places them gently beside the sink before trying to pull my shirt over my head.
It’s so caked in mud that it gets stuck.
I help pull it off, and she laughs even harder.
I laugh too, dropping my forehead to her shoulder.
“This is hilarious,” I laugh, as steam begins curling around us.
“This is your idea.”
“You agreed very quickly.”
“You were concerned about me getting hypothermia or whatever.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?”
“Miles.”
I lift my head and watch as she starts to strip off one piece of dirty, wet clothing after another. I follow suit, peeling off my jeans.
The laughter fades as she takes my hand, pulling me into the shower with her.
Water runs over her hair, down her temples, along the line of her throat. I watch as mud swirls at our feet and disappears down the drain. The outside world shrinks to the sound of water and breath, and the charged inch of space between our bodies.
I look down and see a bruise blooming on her hip where she fell. I reach out and brush it with the tips of my fingers.
This. The scrape on her hand. They’re such minor injuries. Still, my chest tightens.
Her hand covers mine. “I’m okay,” she says.
I nod.
But I don’t let go.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
I look at her. She sees too much. She always does. That is part of the problem. Maybe the whole problem.
“I know you’re capable,” I say. “I know you can take care of yourself. I know you don’t need me hovering like a paranoid lunatic with trail maps.”
“Good.”
“But Grant scared me.”
The words come out before I can make them prettier.
Daisy stills.
I look down at our joined hands under the warm spray.
“I don’t like how he looked at you. I don’t like what he implied. I don’t like that he’s close enough to interfere, and I really don’t like that Owen showing up makes me think this is bigger than I wanted it to be.”
My throat works.
Great.
Emotional confession in a shower the size of a cereal box.
Very dignified.
“I know how to manage risk,” I say. “I can plan routes. I can outmaneuver Grant. I can protect the evidence and the team and the work. But doing all of this and not worrying about you….”
For a second, she says nothing.
Then her face softens. Not in pity. Something tender.
“Miles.”
I shake my head. “I know. I know that’s not your problem. I know we said no one can know. I know I can’t act like you’re different in front of everyone else.”
“I am different.”
My eyes snap to hers.
Her cheeks are pink from the steam. Her hair is wet and slicked back from her face, mud still stuck along her hairline. She looks at me like she’s annoyed at herself for saying it and even more annoyed that it’s true.
“I mean, for me, things are different,” she says quietly. “I’m part of this now. Not because of you, and not because of the podcast, but because I saw it too—this shit is real.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
All thought leaves my body.
The kiss starts slower than the other night. Less frantic. More tender.
This time, I know exactly how my hand stretches across her jaw and cheekbone. I know exactly what it means when she rises onto her toes and pulls me closer. I know exactly how little difference there is between wanting and needing when her lips are on mine.
The water runs warm over both of us. Steam fogs the mirror beyond the curtain.
Her hands slide into my hair, and I forget the mud, the maps, the rival crew, the giant impossible thing moving through the trees.
For a few minutes, there is only Daisy.
Her laugh against my mouth when I bump my elbow again.
Her whispered “Careful, Adler” before her lips meet mine again, as if she were not the least careful thing that had ever happened to me.
Her warmth. Her trust. The way she lets me hold her, not because she needs it, but because she wants to. And in some ways, that feels more perilous than anything waiting in the woods.
We break apart to catch our breath. Daisy stands in front of me under the water, hair hanging heavy and wet down her back. My heart thunders. I’ve rappelled cliffs with less adrenaline than this. I run a hand along her hairline, brushing mud off in the water.
“Let me help you,” I say, combing my other hand through her lengths, unsure of how she’ll react.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” The words come out quieter than I intend. “I want to.”
We’d both been soaked and filthy for hours, cold enough to stop joking for a while.
Even while other things are terrifying, taking care of each other feels inevitable.
I reach for the mini shampoo bottle in my bag just beyond the shower curtain.
“Okay,” I say, trying to be normal and failing. “I should warn you I have no credentials here.”
Her mouth twitches. “You wash your own hair.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m good at it.”
That gets a laugh.
She turns fully then, back to me. Trusting. Daisy Bennett— the woman who talks faster than thought, who armors herself in jokes and confidence sharp enough to cut—is standing in front of me with wet hair and tired eyes and absolutely nowhere to hide. Letting me take care of her.
Something in my chest tightens. I wet my hands first, working shampoo between my palms. The scent blooms between us—nothing fancy.
“Ready?” I ask.
Her shoulders lift slightly. “Sure.”
Brave for somebody who looks deeply unconvinced.