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As always, Wells reached for the passenger door and pulled it open for me. The small, practiced gesture should’ve meant nothing.

But today, with the weight of last night still between us and the hour-long drive stretching ahead, it made me want to run.

Instead, I climbed in, bracing myself for the silence.

The truck rumbled to life, and Wells backed out of the driveway, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. The cab was quiet, except for the hum of the engine and the occasional chirp of his phone lighting up with another message.

I stared out the window, watching the fields blur past, arms folded tightly over my chest.

A few minutes passed before he finally spoke. “Do you want music, or are we sitting in silence the whole way?”

“Silence works for me.”

He huffed out a soft laugh, like he expected that answer but was amused by it anyway. “Knew you’d say that.”

I didn’t respond.

A beat of quiet. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he reached for the radio and spun the dial. The opening notes of an old country song filled the cab—one I knew, one I had accidentally admitted to liking weeks ago.

I cut him a sharp look. “Really?”

“What?” He smirked, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Nothing.”

His grin deepened like he didn’t believe me, and he started to hum along—low, lazy, intentionally off-key.

I exhaled sharply, pressing my fingers to my temple. “Please stop.”

He whistled the next few bars instead, way too pleased with himself. He shot me a sidelong glance, all easy charm and mischief.

I tightened my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, I turned back to the window, pretending I wasn’t hyper-aware of every move he made, every glance he stole in my direction.

For the next few miles, he kept the music playing but stayed quiet.

Because no amount of off-key singing or easy grins was going to make me forget last night.

When we finally turned onto Charlie and Blythe’s long gravel driveway, my stomach tightened. Not because I didn’t want to see them but because I knew the second we stepped out of this truck, we’d have to pretend everything was fine. That whatever was brewing between Wells and me wasn’t lingering just beneath the surface.

Wells slowed the truck to a stop in front of the house, cutting the engine. For a second, he didn’t move. Neither did I.

Then, just as I reached for the door handle, he leaned back in his seat, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. “You gonna keep avoiding me all afternoon, or do I get a truce while we’re here?”

I shot him a look. “A truce?”

He shrugged, a slow, easy motion. “Figured Blythe and Charlie don’t need to be caught in the crossfire.”

I exhaled sharply. He wasn’t wrong. The last thing I wanted was to ruin the afternoon.

“Fine,” I muttered, pushing open the door. “A truce.”

“Good.” His voice carried a smirk, like he thought this was some kind of victory.

I ignored it, stepping out onto the gravel and adjusting my jacket. Before I could head up the porch steps, the front door swung open, and Blythe appeared, all warmth and excitement.

“Rose!” She beamed, arms already reaching for me.

The second she wrapped me in a hug, some of the tension in my chest loosened. Blythe had that effect—like stepping into sunlight after too many days of gray.