We’re an hour outside Denver before Chase speaks. “You don’t have to keep looking at me. I’m fine, really.” He doesn’t move his focus from the road.
Out the windscreen, the landscape has already begun to shift. The jagged peaks of the Rockies and the foothills that cut from the edge of Oakwood Ranch fade into the distance behind a haze of wintry pale sun, and in their place is the rugged sprawl of Colorado’s eastern plains. Patches of dense pine thengolden grassland and the occasional ranch house or red barn. Everything feels quieter out here. Wilder.
“Are you?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
There’s a long pause, and for a moment I think he won’t answer. Then he speaks again. “No. But I’m notnotfine, if that makes sense. I’m just…” He draws in a long breath, releasing it slowly. “… Hollow.”
I glance over, but his eyes stay fixed on the road.
“When Harry died,” he says finally, his voice low, “it was like the ground got ripped out from under me. It was sharp and brutal. I missed him every damn second because I loved him. This… it’s nothing like that. This isn’t grief for what I lost. It’s grief for what I never had.”
My heart twists at the sound of his words. I hate that he feels that way. That the warmth and light and joy that usually radiates from him has dimmed. And I can’t do anything. I can’t reach into his chest and scoop out all the guilt and confusion and pain I know he’s swimming in, as much as I wish I could. I want to shield him from the ache of all that unresolved history, protect him from the spiral of what-ifs. But I can’t.
So instead, I reach across the space between us and place my hand on his thigh. He glances at me, briefly, as he reaches with one hand to lace his fingers with mine for a moment before returning it to the wheel.
I don’t push him to talk. I know when Chase needs quiet and headspace. That my presence is enough. So I lean my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching the world shift as we move through it, watching a herd of cattle stand silhouetted on a ridge as we pass, and give Chase the quiet he needs.
We stop in the afternoon for gas and snacks, both of us stretching as we climb out of the cab somewhere near Wilson off the I-70, deep in Kansas. It’s one of those all-hours highway service stops—half diner, half convenience store, with truckers hunched over coffee and pancakes at the counter while road-weary families push tired kids toward restrooms and soda machines. There’s a soft clatter of plates and the hiss of a fryer coming from inside the diner, mingling with the buzz of neon signs in the windows. The shop next door sells everything from energy drinks to souvenir mugs.
Chase heads inside to pay while I stretch my legs. I tilt my face to the sky, inhaling deeply. It’s deep into fall now, and the air holds a cold November bite. The sky is a brooding slate gray, with thick, low-hanging clouds sweeping in from the northwest. I scan the horizon out of habit. There’s a defined leading edge to the front—the hints of a squall line promising a storm is coming.
We’ll be heading south soon, cutting close to Tornado Alley. Statistically, it’s the wrong season for them. May is the month the tornado chasers flock to the area, but it doesn’t stop me watching the sky. There’s a weight to it. A restless energy. Like the clouds are holding their breath, and Chase’s mood mirrors it exactly. Ominous. Quiet. Charged.
The thought makes me track Chase’s movements as he heads into the convenience store, and I climb back into the truck to wait. It’s impossible not to admire the way his gray tee clings to his broad back. And even though I can still feel the imprint of last night—his hands, his mouth, the low growl of his voice still echoing in my mind—I ache for him again. He blew my mind, shattered every expectation, but I crave the feel of his skinagainst mine, the press of his weight, the rough whisper of his name on my lips.
And this morning, when he pulled me to his chest and kissed me, it felt like it meant something. But I can’t ignore the uncertainty humming beneath the surface of my skin. Now we’ve dived headfirst over the line of our friendship and we’re standing on the other side, I don’t know what it means for us. Where we go from here. I tried to ask him this morning, but chickened out at the last minute, teasing him about how different he is in the bedroom instead. I smile at the memory of his voice commanding me.Take off your clothes.
I’ve laid my heart and my soul bare. I’m completely exposed. And I have no idea where I stand. I scrunch my eyes shut, trying to push out the questions. I should be focused on Chase and the support he needs from me right now.
Way to be a good friend, Serena!
When I open my eyes again, Chase is stalking toward me, a brown paper bag in his hand. When he reaches the truck, he leans through the open window, and I catch the scent of his aftershave. The smell of sandalwood and vanilla sparks a fire inside me. He brushes a few strands of hair from my face.
His fingers linger at my temple. His eyes hold mine. “Thank you for coming with me,” he says.
I smile softly. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” I hold his gaze, trying to convey a hundred unspoken truths.
A small smile touches Chase’s lips before he rounds the hood and slides in beside me on the driver’s seat. The scent of gas and road dust and Chase fill the cab as he starts the engine. I peek into the bag he’s dropped in my lap and my heart squeezes. All my favorites. Sour candy. Salt and vinegar chips. Chocolate-covered pretzels. Grape soda.
He remembers everything. The realization eases the humming of uncertainty. Maybe I don’t have to know what thisis between us. Maybe I don’t have to define it yet. This is Chase. My Chase. And I love him with everything I have. Right now, I just need to be here for him. With him. And that’s enough.
The sun dips low behind us as we cruise toward Oklahoma, long shadows striping the highway. I pick up his phone and scroll to his Spotify, pulling up a playlist I made him last year for his birthday—all his favorite tracks and the songs we listened to together when we were kids. The fun ones. The happy ones. Steering clear of the moody country ballads he listens to when he thinks no one’s paying attention. I skip past a boy band heartbreak hit and tap play on a ’90s pop anthem. But he doesn’t sing. His knuckles are white on the wheel, shoulders locked tight, like every mile is pulling him further into himself. He needs a release.
“Pull over,” I say.
His brow creases as he glances at me, then back to the empty stretch of road. Darkness has settled, no headlights in sight, so it’s no surprise when he asks, “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, but you need a breather.”
Without another word, he guides the truck onto the shoulder and kills the engine. His hand is already reaching for the door when I stop him. “Not that kind of breather.”
Confusion flickers across his face, but it softens into the beginnings of a smile when I lean into the solid warmth of his body. He doesn’t resist when my lips brush his, when I tease him with a slow bite of his lower lip, coaxing him out of the storm he’s drowning in.
My fingers make quick work of his belt, tugging it free before I undo his jeans. The sound of the zipper is sharp in the stillness, and when I slip my hand inside and release his thick length, the sound he makes in the back of his throat goes straight to my core. But this isn’t about me—it’s about breaking the tight grip he has on himself, if only for a while.
“What are you doing?” His voice is ragged, half protest, half plea.
“Giving you what you need,” I whisper as I lower my head, running the flat of my tongue over his swollen tip, tasting the first salty trace of him as his body shudders at my touch, and he releases a hissed curse.