Avery:
Cruz picked me up after his rounds, pulling up in that beat-up truck that still smelled like leather, motor oil, and him.
He didn’t say much.
Didn’t offer one of his usual smug smirks. No cocky comments. Just a tight jaw and that ever-present furrow in his brow that made it look like he was preparing to wage war.
On what? I didn’t know.
But I’ve learned to let him work it out when he’s like that—coiled and quiet. Pressing doesn’t get you answers with Cruz. It gets you stonewalled or f****d into silence, depending on how wild his day’s been.
So I leaned back in the seat, kicked my boots up on the dash (earning a sideways glare), and let the silence stretch while we picked up pizza on the way home. He grunted something at the guy at the counter and handed me the box, and I swear
