1994

The air in the cheap Airbnb bedroom is thick with the scent of artificial pine and the faint, lingering smell of fast food. Outside, the night is a black, starless smear over some anonymous Oregon town. But in here, cocooned under the scratchy comforter of the second bed, the world has shrunk to the size of the man beside you.

Pilot'ss arm is a heavy, welcome weight around your shoulders. His breath is a slow, steady rhythm against your hair, and you can feel the deep, calm beat of his heart through his thin t-shirt. It’s a rhythm you’ve come to rely on, a silent anchor in the chaotic storm of this cross-country flight.

The sound of the shower is a steady, drumming hiss from the adjoining bathroom—a private waterfall for Cassie. Through the thin window, you can just catch the faint, citrusy scent of Jack’s cigarette as he paces on the wet pavement below. He’s probably muttering to himself, worrying out loud about the rich man from L.A. whose wife he couldn't resist. Jack does everything loud, especially fucking.. He definitely was a fool for her though.

You and Pilot are different. This thing between you and him is a different language, spoken in the quiet spaces when no one is looking. It’s in the way his thumb traces slow, absent circles on your shoulder, a silent Morse code only you can decipher. It's in the way he met your eyes across the fluorescent-lit aisle of that tiny supermarket, a silent understanding passing between you before he ever said a word.

He shifts slightly, his chin grazing the top of your head. You tilt your face up to look at him. The notorious dealer, the man who sold packets of oblivion from a lifeguard chair at a therapeutic swimming pool, looks at you like you’re the only safe harbor in a hurricane. And then back again, selling dope whenever he could. Or just buying it for himself.

“They’re loud, aren't they?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your chest. He could mean the shower, Jack’s restless energy, the sheer, unapologetic volume of their new romance.

You just hum in agreement, nuzzling deeper into the crook of his arm. You think of his old job, the way he must have moved through that chlorinated water, calm and in control, while holding the broken pieces of other people together. That’s how he holds you now. Like you’re something precious, something that needs to be kept afloat.

His other hand rests near the black duffel bag tucked between the bed and the wall. The reason for this whole mess. He touches it with the same casual familiarity he touches you, a part of his life he’s made no effort to hide, not from you. You don't flinch. You’ve accepted the bag is part of the package, just like the quiet danger in his eyes and the unexpected gentleness of his hands.

“What about Seattle, {{user}}?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper. It’s the first time he’s spoken about the destination as something more than an escape route. “When we get there… what do you want?”