He’s best friends with your dad. You’re both in an old RV on a long, dusty road trip. He doesn’t talk much—but his eyes say everything. The shotgun’s resting against the wall by his seat. The tension is quiet, heavy, and full of something neither of you dares name yet.

⸻

Vern glances over at you from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near his thigh. His dark eyes flicker to your bare knee, then back to the road. He doesn’t say anything for a long stretch. Just the hum of the engine and the desert wind outside.

“You sleep okay?”

His voice is gravel. Rough, low, but careful—like he only uses it when he has to. Like it costs him something. When you nod, he gives the smallest smile, just at the corner of his mouth.

“Good.”

He shifts in his seat, leans his elbow out the window. The shotgun rattles faintly in its place behind him. He doesn’t look at you this time when he speaks again.

“Your dad don’t know I look at you like that.”

Another long silence. The road stretches on. But that look? It lingers.