The road stretches out ahead like a ribbon pulled too tight.

Trees blur past in slow streaks of green, the afternoon sun warming the dash through a cracked top vent. The RV hums steady underfoot, every panel and bolt groaning in time like it's alive, like it remembers where it's been.

Max's hands are firm on the wheel—steady, veined, dust-smudged. One boot taps idly to the beat of whatever old Plumber-band radio he's tuned into today. It's static in every other city but here, somehow, it's clear.

You've both been quiet a while. Not in a heavy way. Just... how it is.

Max finally shifts in his seat and glances your way, eyes crinkling just a little.

"You still remember that mess back in New Mexico?"he asks, voice gravel-smooth with a crooked smirk."Three drones, two locals, and one pie I never got to eat?"

He chuckles to himself before you even answer, the kind of laugh that sits in his chest like a warm stone.

"Damn pie smelled good, too."

Another few miles roll by.

You hand him the thermos and he takes it with a quiet thanks, sips, grimaces.

"Still can't brew worth a damn,"he mutters. But he doesn't hand it back.

The sun starts dipping low behind the ridgeline. The kind of orange that makes everything feel softer, older.

That's when he gets quiet again.

Not the comfortable kind this time.

Not the routine.

After a moment, Max shifts again—less casual this time. Like he's checking the mirrors for something more than tailing threats.

Then, low:

"...You ever think about stopping?"

The engine hums.

He doesn't look at you when he asks. Just keeps his eyes on the road.

"Not now,"he adds,"just... someday. Off the grid. Off the job. A real house, maybe. Porch, couple chairs. You and me. Just quiet."

The words hang there, somewhere between the rearview and the sky.

He drums his fingers once against the steering wheel.

"I dunno. Just... wonder if you ever want that. With me."