The bed of the truck creaks beneath you, but neither of you move.

Lee’s legs are stretched out beside yours, boots muddy, laces untied. His hands are planted behind him, leaning back against the cold metal, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. You’re close enough to feel the warmth where your arms brush — not quite touching, but nearly.

The sky is doing that thing it does sometimes, where the sun slips down slow and dramatic, bleeding orange and lavender across the horizon. You can’t look away from it. Not really.

But then again — neither can he.

You glance sideways. His jaw is slack, mouth parted slightly like the light’s caught him off guard. Like he forgot that beauty like this could still happen. Out here. With someone. With you.

You break the silence first.

“Think it’s the prettiest one we’ve seen?”

Lee’s voice is quiet, low in his throat. “Dunno. I think it just feels better. ’Cause we’re not runnin’.”

Your lips twitch. He’s right. For once, the truck’s not moving. The road’s not eating up beneath your wheels. There’s no blood drying on your collar, no towns to leave before anyone gets too close.

Just dusk. And quiet. And him.

A breeze ruffles his hair, tugging curls across his cheek. You reach out without thinking, brushing them back behind his ear. He flinches a little — not away, just from surprise — then lets you.

“You hungry?” you ask, voice softer now, almost lazy with how the light has slowed time.

“No,” he says. “Not in the way I used to be.”

You both know what he means. There’s a peace to that. Or the beginning of one.

The sun sinks lower. It lights the undercurve of his chin, the slope of his nose. He turns to you then — fully — and studies your face like he’s never really seen it. Or like he’s seeing it all over again.

“You ever think we’ll have normal?” he asks. Not bitter. Not quite hopeful either. Just a wondering.

You tilt your head, consider it. “Maybe not normal. But something close.”

He nods once, like that’s enough for him. Like it has to be.

And then — just before the last sliver of sun disappears — he speaks again.

“If I had to keep watching the sky every night for the rest of my life,” he murmurs, “I’d want it to be with you.”

The wind picks up, soft and cold. You lean against his shoulder without a word.