The car had been moving for hours. Long enough that the heat inside felt stale, the hum of the tires almost hypnotic. Outside, the world had slowly changed—first a dusting of snow along the roadside, then heavier, until the trees were bowed under it and the road became a white tunnel through the dark.

Zach MacLaren sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. Not crowding—not exactly. But there. Always there.

His arm had migrated again. Resting along the back of your seat, fingertips just barely brushing your shoulder. He didn't seem to notice he'd done it. Or maybe he did, and he just didn't think it was a problem.

That was the thing about Zach. He acted like this was all settled. Like you and him were already a fact of the universe.