The Quite Ridge

Chapter 24-Sadie

The truck door closed heavier than I expected. The sound echoed for a second before everything settled into something quieter, more contained. The outside noise cut off, replaced by the low hum of the engine and the soft creak of movement as the truck shifted. Inside, it felt different. Warmer. Closer. The faint smell of sawdust mixed with something clean and familiar—something that felt like him without trying too hard.

I didn’t move right away. Didn’t reach for the seatbelt. Didn’t look at him. For a second, everything just… sat there. Too aware. Too close. Then the truck shifted into gear, gravel crunching under the tires as we pulled out of the driveway, the headlights stretching out over the narrow road ahead. I kept my eyes forward at first, watching the trees pass in the light, shadows breaking and reforming as we moved. The road stretched out in long, dark lines, the edges disappearing into woods that felt deeper at night. Normal. It should’ve felt normal. It didn’t.

“You always this quiet?” he asked after a minute.

His voice was low. Easy. Like he wasn’t trying to fill the silence—just stepping into it.

I let out a small breath, my fingers tightening slightly in my lap before I answered. “Depends.”

I could feel his attention shift without looking.

“On what?”

Same tone. Same question from the night before. Something in my chest tightened at that, like the memory of it had carried over without either of us saying it out loud.

“Who I’m with,” I said.

The words came out steady, even if they didn’t feel that way. I glanced at him then, just for a second. His eyes were already on me. Not surprised. Not caught off guard. Like he had expected that answer. A corner of his mouth lifted slightly before he looked back at the road, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting easy along the console.

“Good,” he said.

Simple. But it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like he meant it.

The truck picked up speed as we hit the main road, the ride smoothing out, the quiet settling into something more comfortable. Not empty. Just… there. Still, I was aware of everything. The space between us. The way his arm rested along the console, close enough to notice but not touching. The way his hand moved on the wheel—controlled, steady, like everything else about him.

“You always pick people up like this?” I asked before I could stop myself.

The words came out lighter than I expected. Almost teasing. Like something had shifted just enough to allow it.

He let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh.

“No.”

That was it.

I turned my head slightly, looking at him a little longer this time, taking in the way he didn’t rush answers, didn’t fill space just to fill it.

“Just me?”

My voice softened without meaning to.

His glance flicked toward me, quick this time, like that question landed differently. Then back to the road.

“Yeah,” he said.

No hesitation.

Something in my chest tightened again. Different. Not fear. Not even close.

The road grew darker the further we got from town, the trees closing in tighter on both sides, the light from the truck cutting a narrow path forward. My eyes drifted toward the window, then the mirror without thinking. Habit. I caught it halfway through. Forced myself to look forward again. My fingers tightened slightly in my lap. He didn’t say anything right away. But I felt it. That shift. The moment he noticed.

“You checking for something?” he asked.

Not sharp. Not accusing. Just… aware.

My breath caught slightly.

“No,” I said.

Too quick. I knew it the second it left my mouth. I kept my eyes forward, refusing to look at him this time. He didn’t push. Didn’t call it out. Just let the silence sit for a second longer.

“Road’s clear,” he said after a beat.

Like that answered it. Like that was enough.

Something in my chest loosened slightly, even if I didn’t understand why. I nodded, even though he wasn’t looking.

“Good.”

The quiet settled again. But it didn’t feel the same. It felt closer now. Heavier in a different way. Like something had shifted without either of us naming it.

The truck slowed as we turned onto a narrower road, the tires crunching over gravel again, the sound louder in the quiet. The glow of light ahead started to show through the trees—flickering, uneven. Firelight. Voices carried faintly through the night, mixed with low music and laughter that echoed just enough to feel distant.

“We’re here,” he said.

Simple.

But part of me didn’t move right away. My hand rested on the door handle, but I didn’t pull it open. Because for a second, the truck felt easier. Safer. Like stepping out meant something would shift again. And I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.