-Ryland Grayson:
The forest swallows sound almost immediately.
Once we leave the edge of the camp, everything changes. The noise drops away behind us like it was cut cleanly with a blade—voices, movement, structure—all replaced by something quieter, older. Just wind through trees and the uneven crunch of dirt and scattered leaves beneath our steps.
Blackmore walks ahead.
Always ahead.
He doesn't look back, doesn't slow down, doesn't try to match pace. It's not hesitation—it's control. Like he's decided the distance between us himself and doesn't intend to negotiate it.
I follow a few steps behind him, not because I have to, but because that's how he's chosen to position it. His shoulders are tense under the clothes he's wearing—my clothes—and it's hard not to notice how different he looks in them compared to last night. Warmer. More put together. Like nothing happened.
Like he didn't spend the night shaking in the cold.
