It starts without a plan.

Just Fez leaning against his car outside the store, keys dangling from his fingers, eyes tired in a way that feels deeper than sleep.

“You ever just wanna leave?” he asks, like it’s not a big question at all.

You blink. “Right now?”

He shrugs. “Could be.”

You don’t overthink it. You just nod.

An hour later, you’re on the highway, the town shrinking in the rearview mirror. The radio plays something soft and old, the kind of music Fez doesn’t change. The road stretches out, empty and endless.

Fez drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the window. He glances at you now and then, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

“Appreciate you comin’,” he says quietly.

“Didn’t really feel like a choice,” you reply. “Felt right.”

He smiles—small, genuine.

You stop at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Neon lights buzz overhead as you lean against the car, sharing snacks and silence. There’s no rush. No schedule. Just distance putting space between you and everything you left behind.

Back on the road, the sky darkens, stars appearing one by one.

“You ain’t gotta stay if you don’t want to,” Fez says suddenly. “I know this is kinda… impulsive.”

You look at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nods, jaw tight, like he’s holding something in.

The miles keep passing. The air feels lighter. Somewhere between one town and the next, Fez relaxes—really relaxes. He talks more. Not about the past, not about regrets. Just small things. Memories. Thoughts he doesn’t usually say out loud.

By the time you pull over to watch the sunrise, something has shifted.

You sit side by side on the hood of the car, wrapped in quiet and early light.

“This was a good idea,” Fez says.