Chapter 25
chapter
twenty-five
DAISY
Within an hour after my breakthrough with Marissa, she had a meeting set with the executive team and we had a proposal nearly ready.
Because no matter how much I evolve, personal growth for me will always look like over-functioning.
A few days later, I was on a plane back to middle-of-nowhere, Arizona.
I’m not at the Machine yet. I’m close enough that I’m nervous and far away enough to chicken out. My motel room—thirty-five minutes away from the RV park—is chaos. Laptop open. Notebook open. Three cold coffees. One truly alarming pile of snack wrappers.
And Maya on FaceTime, staring at me with the kind of patient concern usually reserved for people building bombs in garages. "You know," she says, "when you texted me not to tell Miles we were talking, I assumed we were discussing an emotional crisis."
"Mean."
"Am I wrong?" she raises an eyebrow with a knowing smile.
I huff and glance toward the window. Red cliffs glow in the early morning light. God, I missed this place.
"So…" Maya says. "Talk."
I take a breath. "I'm leaving The DL." Her eyes widen. I continue. "I'm starting my own imprint. Full creative control."
She smiles so hard it almost hurts. "Daisy. That’s huge."
"And I think…" My pulse kicks. "I think I figured out how to protect you guys."
She shakes her head slightly, confused. "What do you mean?"
I turn my phone toward the camera. Grant Ridgefield is frozen on my screen mid-livestream. Behind him, one of his guys is watching clips from my podcast. Another has maps open. Another is taking notes.
Maya's smile disappears. "Oh."
"They've been using my coverage to track you."
She shakes her head, figuring as much.
"I've been watching them all week," I say. "And I have an idea."
Maya studies me for a long beat. "Oh no."
"Oh yes."
The Mystery Machine is parked exactly where it was. Like this corner of the universe didn’t have the audacity to keep moving while I was mid-crisis. And thank God for that.
Dust clings to the 4Runner. One camp chair sits crooked outside the Machine’s door. A jacket hangs from the sideview mirror. Faint music drifts from inside. Everything is heartbreakingly normal.
And as it turns out, there’s nothing like normalcy to induce severe nausea. This is fun. My stomach and I are enjoying this. Nerves, what are nerves?
My hands tighten around my bag and I take a deep breath. I may not have loved the Daisy I was on The DL at the end, but the Daisy I always love is Daisy on a mission. So I channel that energy as best as I can.
Woman on a mission. We can panic later.
The RV door swings open before I can overthink my way back into the rental car. Jax freezes in the doorway. Actually freezes. One foot halfway down the steps. A cheese stick hanging out of his mouth.
We stare at each other.
Wind moves softly through the trees.
A crow caws somewhere like even nature knows this is awkward.
Slowly, dramatically, he pulls the cheese stick out.
“…Holy shit.”
“Hey, Jax.”
“Am I hallucinating?”
“Possibly.”
He laughs. “Welcome back?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“You look hotter.”
“Jax.”
“No, seriously. Did you have a post-break-up glow-up?”
I open my mouth and nothing comes out. Of course everyone knows Miles and I were… a thing.
Before I can answer, Taylor appears behind him.
She takes one look at me and stops. Her arms cross automatically. Terrifying, protective woman posture activated. “You came back.” It’s not cold or warm, just fact.
“Yeah,” I say, my throat suddenly very dry. I croak out, “I’m sorry.”
Something soft flickers across her face so fast I almost miss it. Taylor glances once toward the trees. Toward the place Miles definitely is. Then back at me.
“You here to talk?”
I inhale slowly. “No.”
Her brows lift. “Interesting.”
“I’m here to fix it.”
Jax straightens, and Taylor goes still.
Maya comes out behind them. “Daisy, you were here? Okay, you are kind of insane.”
“Wait, you guys have been talking?” Taylor looks left out.
Jax chimes in, “Yeah, what the hell, Maya? We want in on any crazy plans!”
Because I enjoy emotional self-sabotage, I pull out my phone.
“Well, I saw on the way here that Ridgefield started running a deeply embarrassing campaign trying to make us all look stupid online.”
There’s total silence, just the breeze rustling the pines.
“What the fuck?” Jax curses, taking a look.
“Yeah, what the fuck?” Owen echoes, stepping out of the RV and looking right at me, not even paying attention to the phone.
“I can explain,” I mutter. “Maybe inside?”
Ten minutes later, the crew—except for Miles, who is out on a hike—is crowded around the couch.
The couch. Stupid couch. My chest squeezes traitorously.
Taylor sits perched on one armrest.
Jax has somehow acquired popcorn as if my emotional chaos is his entertainment for the day.
Owen leans against the workspace counter, watching me with suspicious older brother energy.
My laptop glows between us.
Grant Ridgefield appears onscreen, radiating the energy of a man who would leave a one-star review because the waitress wouldn’t give him a smile.
The words flash on the screen: “Looks like Strange Terrain finally lost podcast girl.” Then a freeze-frame of me mid-sneeze.
Rude. Owen and Jax snicker.
Taylor throws her hands up. “Okay, come on! That’s the screenshot they chose?”
Owen mutters, “Brutal.”
I scoff. “Obviously I didn’t come all the way here to tell you they posted a hideous picture of me, guys. Hold on.”
I click forward. The laughter dies. Grant is standing in front of a map. It’s obvious it’s one of Miles’s.
Pins mark almost every location we've visited over the past month, built entirely from podcast episodes, drone footage, and social posts.
I click again. A side-by-side comparison. Jax's drone footage on the left. Ridgefield's team hiking the exact same route less than forty-eight hours later on the right.
Another click and I show the team a comment thread where people are discussing Grant’s team being one step ahead in the game.
The last click reveals a freeze frame of a clip I spotted last night. There's a person carrying what looks like a rolled-up ghillie suit, but when I zoom in further, a massive rubber foot hangs out of the duffel bag.
Taylor swears under her breath.
Owen mutters something deeply threatening.
“So,” I say, forcing professionalism because emotional vulnerability feels illegal. “Good news.”
Taylor narrows her eyes.
“There’s good news?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I say. “I have a plan.”
I shut the laptop and start talking. The plan. Narrative control. Ethical fandom. Fake-outs. Ambiguous geography.
Protecting the mystery means protecting the people. Protecting the land. Protecting the story.
And it also means making Ridgefield chase ghosts.
Halfway through explaining the strategy, I realize everyone’s staring at me. Jax looks impressed, and Taylor looks pleased. Owen just has a small smile, nodding along.
“So what does this mean for you, Daisy?” Taylor asks, turning to me. “Beyond Miles or anything. What about the show?”
Maya looks at me with a knowing smile. “Are you going to tell them?”
I shrug and tell them all about the imprint, the plans, and all of the things that have happened over the past week to make it so I could be back here with them.
“Well, shit,” Jax laughs.
Heat rises behind my cheeks.
“Yeah,” I say with a hesitant smile, wondering if this is all okay. Trying to lighten the mood, I add, “You did say once you catch STD, it kind of sticks with you.”
Taylor breaks into a huge smile. “Happy you’re here, girl,” she says, squeezing me in a hug. Maya bends down and joins in, followed by Jax. Owen just stands there awkwardly.
Then, the RV door opens.
Bootsteps sound on the steps.
Jax visibly perks up like a demon. “Ohhhh, timing.”
I hate him. All the goodwill he just earned is gone.
The door opens and Miles steps inside.
Wet hair.
Flannel half unbuttoned.
Coffee in hand.
Tired, distracted, and fucking beautiful in a way that feels unfair.
He stops in his tracks and lowers the mug.
Silence.
Taylor suddenly becomes fascinated with absolutely nothing.
Jax shoves popcorn into his own mouth in a failed attempt to avoid smiling.
Owen looks between us once and mutters, “Jesus, okay, I’m gonna go stare at the ceiling in my bunk.” Taylor elbows him.
And Miles… Miles just stands there.
Like his brain forgot how to work. His eyes flick to me. The laptop. The couch. Back to me.
“You’re here.”
Not accusation. Not disbelief. Something softer and smaller.
Like hope snuck in before he could stop it.
My throat tightens.
“Yes,” I say. Brilliant. Articulate. Award-winning dialogue.
He takes one hesitant step closer. “You came back.”
God. The way he says it. Something warm and terrifying blooms low in my chest.
I square my shoulders before I lose nerve.
“I came back to tell you guys your media strategy is terrible.”
Taylor mutters, “There she is.”
Jax snorts. “You should see her spreadsheet.”
But Miles laughs, and the air I’d been holding in finally leaves my lungs.
Jax resumes breathing in the most theatrical way possible and Maya rolls her eyes. Taylor mutters something about “finally” under her breath, and I let a chuckle out.
“Can we talk? Just us?” I say, voice softer.
Miles nods and I follow him outside.
I steel myself, bracing for whatever’s about to go down, and make my way down the stairs. My pulse spikes. He walks deeper into the woods, down the trail off the site. I keep pretending to look out at the tree line as golden light makes its way through the pinyons.
“Hey.” Miles’s voice is soft.
I glance up.
He looks like he has the kind of exhaustion that sits under skin. His eyes are shadowed. Like maybe he hasn’t really slept. Something twists painfully inside me.
“Hey,” I reply, biting my lip.
Silence settles. Not awkward. Just… full. Too full. A thousand things standing between us. The ache of it.
He shifts closer. Cautious. Like he’s giving me room to run.
The realization hurts.
Because I made him careful.
“You really made a spreadsheet,” he says finally.
I laugh once. “I was emotionally unstable.”
“You color-coded it.”
“Why shouldn’t coping look beautiful?”
His mouth twitches. Small. God, I missed that. I missed him. The stupid dry humor. The quiet earnestness. The impossible softness he hides under obsession.
I knew it when Marissa and I decided to build the imprint. But I feel it in my bones now—I choose them. Choose him.
For once, I’m not taking something apart for content. I’m building something that keeps it safe and whole.
Our eyes meet, full of everything unsaid.
“You said I care in a way people can feel,” I say.
His expression shifts, almost confused.
“I think…” God. Why is this harder than podcast negotiations? “I think I finally figured out what to do with that.”
Silence and a smile.
The wind picks up for a moment, blowing my hair in my face. The earlier rain has washed the brush clean, the fresh smell rising in the cool night air. The whole world narrows around us.
“You came back,” he says again, eyes wide under those glasses. He’s quieter this time. Like he still can’t quite believe it.
I exhale and look down at my hands. Then make myself tell the truth.
“I left because I was scared. I thought…” I let out a shaky laugh. “Honestly? I thought if I left first, it would hurt less.”
His jaw tightens. Something pained flickering across his face.
“Daisy.”
“No, let me finish.” Before I puke or lose my nerve.
“I kept waiting for you to see through me. To get tired of my shell.” I think of my conversation with Marissa. “But I think you did see the real me. And I was scared you’d get bored of that, too.”
The words come quieter now.
“So I think…” I swallow hard. “I think I decided for you.”
He takes a step closer, slow and careful.
“I was scared too,” he says quietly.
The honesty catches me off guard.
“I go into fix-it mode when I’m scared.” He huffs a weak laugh. Humorless. “Which I’m learning can make me emotionally insufferable.”
Despite everything, I laugh and sniffle my nose.
“A little.”
His mouth tips upward, and his hand reaches out to grab mine. His thumb traces over my knuckles.
“You aren’t wrong.”
The words surprise me.
“When things got… weird there,” He exhales. “I went to my safety net. Routes. Risk. Logistics.” His eyes hold mine. “But not because you mattered less to me.”
Something in my chest cracks open.
“Then why?” I whisper.
He looks at me for so long it almost hurts, looking more terrified with each passing second. Terrified and honest and so unbearably Miles it wrecks me.
“Because I didn’t know what to do with how much you mattered.”
The air leaves my lungs all at once as I squeeze his hand. The sky darkens toward blue. He steps closer. Close enough now.
“What do you want me to do with that?” I sigh, half smiling, half tearing up. “What do you want from me, Miles?”
“I just want you.” His eyes flick briefly to my mouth. Then back up.
I squeeze his hand, trying not to cry for real.
“You know,” I say weakly, unable to resist lightening the moment, “you guys are still terrible at media.”
He huffs out a laugh. “So, what are you saying?”
“I think you need someone on the crew to help with that.”
“Are you planning on staying?” he asks.
I look at the Machine. The glow of the monitors. The impossible little life I somehow missed more than my own apartment. Then back at him.
“Turns out,” I say softly, “I’m really bad at quitting impossible things.”
His tired eyes light up, a smile breaking out across his face.
“Including me?” he asks.
I hold his gaze. No jokes, or armor, or performance.
“Especially you.” My voice cracks as my head tilts.
The silence that follows feels enormous, then very, very small. His other hand reaches for my face, fingers lacing through my hair as his thumb brushes a tear that runs down my cheek.
I don’t pull away. The world narrows to star light and impossible things and the dangerous feeling of maybe trying again, but for real this time.
“We should probably talk about boundaries and communication and plans,” I murmur as his thumb moves to ghost my lips.
“We should.” He moves closer, hand gripping my head tighter, and I can feel his breath on my face. I remember the feel of him, the taste of him. His skin on mine feels electric. The pulsing ache between my legs that’s been there since I saw him again starts to become too much to ignore.
Neither of us moves.
“Tomorrow?” I squeak out.
“Tomorrow,” and his lips crash into mine.