The air around us buzzed with the kind of stillness that doesn’t last — like the universe was giving us this one fragile moment before someone shouted, or the cops returned, or my phone lit up with a group chat imploding in real time.

We didn’t say anything more as we crept through the trees. No more whispers. No jokes. Just the hush of the woods around us and the sound of our feet on damp earth. My sneakers thudded against my thighs with every step. Jaxon walked just ahead of me, not pulling, not leading, just… there.

His car sat waiting at the end of the gravel pull-off like it had known we’d end up here. Like it had waited.

We climbed in. He drove.

No music. Not at first. Just the rumble of the engine and the crickets stretching out into the dark.

I didn’t speak until the lights from the lakehouse had long since vanished in the rearview. Until the night was just trees and shadow and the fading memory of everyone we were supposed to be.

“I think I forgot how to breathe back there,” I said softly, fingers tracing the edge of my hoodie cuff.

Jaxon’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Same.”

“I thought you were going to leave after that kiss.”

He didn’t glance over. Just let the silence hang for a second before replying. “I almost did.”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure what that meant. “But you didn’t.”

“Nope.”

“And not just because I texted you.”

His jaw shifted slightly. “You asked me to come. That matters.”

It shouldn’t have felt like such a loaded thing — a simple text. But it had been. The words hadn’t come from logic. They’d come from instinct. I’d wanted him there. Needed him there. Not as a plan. Not for revenge. Just… because he was the only person I didn’t feel the need to lie to anymore.

“You didn’t have to kiss her,” I said, voice low, not accusing now, just honest. “Not like that.”

He let out a breath, slow and careful. “I know.”

“You did it for me?”

“I did it so they wouldn’t look at you like a traitor.”

“But they will anyway.”

“Yeah,” he said. “They will.”

That truth settled between us like a fog, one we didn’t try to blow away.

He reached forward and finally turned the music on. Something soft. Instrumental. A little haunted, like a movie score playing before a pivotal scene.

“Do you think I’m just using you?” I asked, and the question came out before I could shape it into something less fragile.

He didn’t look startled. Just sad.

“I think you were, maybe. At first,” he said. “But I don’t think that’s why you’re here now.”

“I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be anymore.”

“Good,” he said.

“Good?”

He pulled the car over slowly, gravel crunching under the tires. We were on a side road now, nothing but trees and stars and whatever silence we hadn’t already filled with confessions.

He turned to me, full body, his knee bumping mine.

“Good,” he repeated. “Because the version of you they wanted? The always-perfect, non-threatening, homecoming-queen-you? She was exhausted. I could see it.”

I looked down. My fingers were curled in my lap. “She was.”

“You don’t owe them the old you, Zoe.”

“And what do I owe you?”

He hesitated. Then said, “Nothing.”

That was the moment I knew I’d already given him everything.

“Jaxon,” I said, voice thin but steady, “I don’t want to lie about us anymore.”

His breath caught — just enough to make my heart hiccup.