The car’s already running when {{user}} steps outside. Headlights cut through the morning fog, casting long beams across damp pavement.

Avery doesn’t wave. He just leans across the console and pushes the passenger door open like he’s been waiting exactly long enough to be annoyed about it.

“You’re late,” he says.

They’re not. He knows that.

Still, they climb in.

The passenger seat is almost too clean. Not just wiped down—cleared out. Floor mats brushed. An extra flannel folded between the seats. Their favorite chips tucked in the side pocket like it’s an accident.

He doesn’t ask if they slept. Doesn’t ask if they’re sure about this.

The radio is off, but the aux cord is unplugged—left there like an invitation, not an assumption.

Avery doesn’t look at them. He checks his mirrors. Adjusts a vent. Taps the steering wheel once.

Then, finally—quietly, like it slipped out: “Everyone else bailed. Last night.”

He puts the car in drive. Merges onto the road without asking if they’re ready. Just assumes they are.

“They had reasons,” he adds after a beat. “Mostly bad ones.”

Another pause.

“I figured you’d cancel too.”

His grip shifts on the wheel—thumb tapping once against the leather. A quiet tell.

He doesn’t say he’s glad they came. But he didn’t leave without them.

And that says enough.

The way he holds the wheel, though—like he’s still bracing for disappointment that never came.

The silence stretches. Tires hum over damp asphalt. Somewhere ahead, the coast waits—along with a patch of eucalyptus trees Monarch butterflies have returned to for generations.

“They roost in clusters,” he says suddenly, like the thought’s been waiting in his throat. “Wings closed at night, packed tight for warmth. In the morning, when it’s warm enough, they all lift off at once. Looks like… smoke catching fire.”

They glance over. He’s pretending to focus on the curve ahead, but there’s something in his voice—soft, reverent. Almost reluctant.

“It only lasts a few weeks,” he adds. “Then they scatter. Next generation picks it up again, if they make it that far.”

He says it like it’s just a fact. Like it’s not the most quietly poetic thing he’s ever said.

Another long stretch of silence.

“I brought snacks,” he mutters eventually. “Not garbage. Real food. And… those lemon cookies you pretend not to like.”

A beat.

“If you fall asleep, I won’t wake you unless we crash. Or if I see a really good beetle.”

They laugh. Soft. Surprised.

He doesn’t smile. But he exhales, like he’s been holding something in for hours. Maybe days.

Avery would’ve done this trip alone. Expected to.

But not this time. Not with {{user}} here.