Ozzy leans closer, voice low near my ear. “Render.”
“Your friend?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “He’s dramatic.”
“I like him already.”
Ozzy makes a sound like a laugh, but his eyes hold no humor. Instead he almost appears jealous.
Arrow’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. “Seatbelt.”
I blink. “What?”
Ozzy reaches over, grabs the belt, and clicks it across my chest. It’s a small thing. A normal thing. And it makes my throat tighten, because it’s the first normal, protective gesture anyone has given me in weeks.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
Ozzy looks at me like he knows I’m lying. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he says softly, “You did good back there.”
I swallow. “Thanks,” I whisper.
Arrow’s voice cuts in, dry. “Did you two meet two minutes ago or twelve years ago?”
Ozzy scoffs. “Don’t start.”
Arrow glances at him. “You started. With your hair.”
Ozzy’s hand flies up to his mohawk like it’s personally offended. “My hair did nothing.”
“It’s shouting,” Arrow says flatly.
I choke on a laugh.
Ozzy looks at me. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, smiling despite myself. “It’s just… I didn’t know ‘rescue’ came with commentary.”
Arrow’s mouth tilts slightly. “Everything comes with commentary.”
Ozzy leans back, elbow on the seat, eyes on me again. “You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
I glance down at my hands. They are. Badly. Now that I’m not running, my body is catching up. Adrenaline leaving. Reality returning like a wave. I force my fingers to uncurl. “I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Ozzy’s gaze doesn’t move. “Salem,” he says, and my name on his mouth feels strange. Personal. “You don’t have to be fine. You just have to be here.”
My chest aches. I blink fast and look out the window, focusing on the blur of city lights. “Where are we going?” I ask, because questions are safer than feelings.
“Headquarters,” Arrow says. “We’re going to end this.”
My stomach twists. End this. That means more than me escaping. It means the people who did this don’t get to keep doing it. It means they don’t get to move on to the next girl. I swallow, heat sparking behind my eyes. “Good,” I whisper.
Ozzy’s hand shifts on the seat, close to mine. He’s not touching me, but almost. He’s so close I can feel the heat from his hand radiating toward me. My fingers inch toward his. I let my pinkybrush his. His breath catches like he felt it. And then he turns his head slightly, voice low, teasing, like he’s giving me something lighter to hold.
“So,” he murmurs. “When we’re not being chased by monsters… what do you do for fun?”
I blink at him. My brain stutters. Fun? What is fun? Is it still legal?
“I—” I start, then realize I don’t actually know what my life is outside survival anymore. So I go with honesty. “I like breaking rules,” I say.