Zeke's truck smells like leather and that cedar scent that's become familiar. Too familiar. I keep my hands folded in my lap as he drives, watching the town slide past the window.
"Where are we going?" I ask when he turns onto a road I don't recognize.
"My house." He glances at me. "My parents are at some charity thing until late. But if you're not comfortable-"
"It's fine." The words come out steadier than I feel.
His house is bigger than I expected, all stone and wood nestled into the hillside. But he doesn't take me to the front door. Instead, he leads me around back to a separate building- a converted garage, maybe, with large windows and a heavy wooden door.
"This is my space," he says, pulling out a key. "My parents don't come in here. Nobody does."
The door swings open, and I
