My eyes open slowly.

Not all at once. I blink once. Twice. Focusing. I don’t remember falling asleep.

The realization settles somewhere quiet in my chest. Strange, how easily sleep came. Strange, how I didn’t fight it. Usually, sleep is a wall I have to climb—but here, in this car, with the steady rhythm of the wheels and the silence beside me, it just... happened.

I shift slightly on the seat, my body still heavy with sleep. My gaze shifts toward Silas.

He’s still driving.

His hands rest loosely on the steering wheel. His eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, calm and steady beneath the pale gold light filtering through the windshield.

His face shows no trace of exhaustion. Like he could keep driving forever and never feel the weight of it.

How long has it been?

I lift my wrist and look down at my watch.

The numbers blur for a moment before settling.

Four hours.

We’ve been driving for four hours.

A small shock moves through me—not alarm exactly, but enough to make me sit up straighter.

I turn my head toward the window. The glass is cool against my temple.

Outside—

Nothing.

No city. No buildings. No signs of anything resembling the world I know.

Just valleys.

Vast and green, rolling endlessly beneath a sky too wide to feel real. Hills rise and fall in soft waves, their slopes covered in endless green. A narrow road stretches ahead of us, disappearing into the horizon.

No traffic. No noise. No people.

Just earth. And sky. And this car. And him.

Where is he taking me?

The question arrives quietly, without urgency. Because somewhere between sleep and waking, I’ve stopped caring about the answer.

I didn’t expect this.

I thought we were going to a restaurant. A café. Somewhere ordinary. Somewhere I could sit, endure the noise of other people’s minds, and leave when I’d had enough.

But this—

I look back at him.

His face is still fresh. No trace of exhaustion in the lines of his jaw. His lips are slightly parted, relaxed. His breathing stays calm and even.

He looks exactly the same as when he stepped out of the house this morning—soft, serene, untouched by the weight of four hours behind the wheel.

How?

My voice comes out rough, still heavy with sleep. "Where are you taking me?"

Silas blinks.

Slowly.

Then he glances toward me—a brief sideways look before a soft smile spreads across his lips. Warm. Quiet. Unhurried.

He doesn’t answer with words.

Instead, he turns the wheel and eases the car to the side of the road. The tires crunch softly against gravel. The engine sighs once before falling silent.

Silence rushes in to fill the absence. Not the silence of empty rooms or forgotten hallways. The silence of open spaces untouched by the world.

I unlock my seatbelt. The metal clicks softly before the strap slides across my chest with a quiet whir. Then I open the door.

The air hits me first. Cold. Sharp. Clean in a way city air never is. I inhale deeply.

Once.

Twice.

The cold settles beneath my skin, leaving goosebumps along my arms. I step out of the car. Gravel crunches beneath my shoes.

Then I stretch lazily, arms lifting above my head as my shoulders roll back and my spine cracks softly.

I look around.

Nothing. No trace of anything human. No houses. No streetlights. No billboards screaming for attention.

Just endless valleys rolling beneath a pale sky, their slopes smooth and untouched. A narrow road cuts through them, disappearing somewhere beyond the hills.

Thin clouds drift lazily overhead, softening the sunlight into something pale and distant.

This isn’t a restaurant.

This isn’t a café.

This is nowhere.

And yet—

I lean back against the front of the car. The metal feels cold beneath my palms. The weather here is strange. Cold like the air before snow, even with the sun still hanging above the valley.

Silas steps out of the car.

His movements are quiet. Unhurried. The door closes behind him with a soft thud—not slammed, just closed, like even the sound knows not to disturb this place.

He holds a water bottle in one hand, his notebook and pencil in the other. He walks around the front of the car and stops in front of me.

Close enough to touch. Far enough to breathe.

Then he offers me the water. His hand looks pale against the dark label wrapped around the bottle. Long fingers curled loosely around the plastic.

I look at his hand for a moment longer than I should. Then I take it. Our fingers brush. His are cold. Mine are warm.

I twist the cap open and take a drink. The water is cold. Crisp.

He opens his notebook and writes.

The pencil moves across the page with soft scratches—the only sound besides the wind and my breathing. Then he tears the page out and hands it to me.

We’re almost there. Just one more hour.

My face tightens slightly. The note feels strangely heavy in my hand.

"One more hour?" I look at him. "We’ve already been driving for four hours."

I pause, letting the silence stretch between us. "Where are you taking me?" My voice sharpens slightly. "Just tell me."

Silas looks at me. His gaze stays calm. Patient. Then he shakes his head.

No.

So simple. So quiet. So immovable.

My brows pull together.

So he’s really not going to tell me.

He writes another note and hands it over. I take it—impatient now, almost angry, the paper crumpling slightly between my fingers.

I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Please. Just one more hour.

I exhale slowly. A breath that almost becomes a sigh. My voice turns cold again. Flat. A blade wrapped in silk.

"If I don’t like the place, I’m really leaving you there."

He nods calmly.

The soft smile doesn’t leave his lips.

He writes another note and hands it to me. My face is still tight with something that might be anger but feels different.

Are you hungry?

I stare at the words.

Seriously?

I’m threatening him—and he’s asking if I’m hungry?

I look away. The valleys roll quietly beneath the pale sky.

"No."

My stomach growls. Loud. Obscene. A traitorous sound that cuts through the quiet air.

My eyes widen instantly. I press a hand against my stomach as if I can force the sound back down, pretend it never happened.

What the hell is this?

Traitor.

Something gentler touches Silas’s smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly.

He walks to the back of the car, gravel crunching softly beneath his shoes. When he opens the door, the soft click echoes quietly through the stillness.

Then he reaches inside and pulls out the basket he brought from the house—the one I barely noticed when we left.

He carries it to the hood of the car and sets it down gently. Then he opens it.

I watch him quietly. His movements are slow. Careful. Deliberate. Like each gesture matters to him.

Isn’t he tired?

After driving for so long?

Why doesn’t he look tired?

He lifts a sandwich from the basket, wrapped neatly in parchment paper. Then he holds it out to me.

I look down at it. Then back at his face. And take it. Our fingers brush again. His are still cold. Mine are still warm.

"Aren’t you tired?"

The question leaves me before I can stop it. Softer than I meant it. Almost... careful.

Silas smiles and shakes his head.

No.

I take a bite. The bread is soft. The filling fresh—meat, cheese, something crisp beneath it. It’s simple. But good.

I look away.

"You should get a driver." My voice stays flat, but something beneath it has shifted slightly. "Don’t act like you’re not tired."

He writes another note and hands it to me.

I don’t want one.

I look at him. My brows lift slightly.

"Why?"

He pauses.

The pencil hovers over the page. He’s thinking. Choosing each word carefully, like they cost him something. Then he writes.

Hands me the note. I take it. Look down.

Because I want to be alone with you.

The sandwich stops halfway to my mouth. I stare at the words.

Alone with me.