I wake up disoriented, jolted by the weight of large, heavy paws — only to find the German shepherd nearly sitting on my face while staring intently at the door.

  “Sorry.” The man says as he jumps down carefully, landing dangerously close to my foot before reaching for the doorknob. The dog bolts off the platform, leaping like a missile.

  Sleep is still heavy on me when Sam jumps back into the kitchen before I can even sit up.

  Wow. I really slept like a rock. I must have been dead tired to sleep this well… despite the constant paranoia.

  “All good. What time is it?”

  “Five.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes.” He taps the cabinet, triggering a built-in coffee maker that lowers from a shelf. He switches it on and heads to the bathroom.

  I stretch, still half-asleep, and glance outside. The sun isn’t even up yet. Then I nearly jump out of my skin as the cat suddenly curls up in my lap.

  Sam returns, drying his face, already dressed in the same kind of clothes as yesterday. The only difference is today’s shirt is blue.

  He arrives just in time for the coffee maker to beep the second he stops in front of it. Did he time that? How is he up and moving so efficiently at this hour? We went to bed at 2 AM!

  I force myself to get up — if the host is already moving, I probably should be too. I start folding my sleeping bag when he clears his throat.

  “Go back to sleep. It’s still early.” He pours coffee into a travel mug.

  “No, it was about time to wake up anyway. Should I get the others up?”

  Sam pulls a croissant from a bag. “No. Only if you think it’s absolutely necessary.” He walks right past me toward the exit without even a glance.

  He bites into the bread while pulling on his jumpsuit and waterproof boots.

  I take advantage of the privacy he gave me to get ready for the day. I glance at the coffee pot and the food, but don’t help myself. He never said I could. I have some snacks in the car anyway.

  When I step outside, he’s sitting on the platform, gazing at the scenery, finishing his breakfast with the dog beside him.

  “Do you have the car keys?” he asks, still refusing to turn around.

  “No. Why?”

  “Need to check the car and replace the hose.”

  A damn AI would be less robotic than talking to this guy. If I hadn’t seen how he acts around others, I’d think he was some kind of machine.

  “I can grab the keys.”

  “Don’t wake them up.”

  “They’re in the car.”

  “That’s a lot of trust.”

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Who’s gonna steal it? The only other person around to be suspicious of is you. What are you gonna do, drive two vehicles at once?”

  “Fair point.” He stands up, stretching. “Go eat while I steal the car,” he says, flashing a mischievous grin before hopping off the platform.

  “They’re in the glove box,” I confirm, amused by his weird sense of humor.

  I hear the keys jingling as he opens the car. I nod to myself and turn back inside to prepare the same breakfast he had.

  By the time I return — barely a few minutes later — he’s already testing the car’s stability after lifting it.

  “Need a hand?”

  “No, thanks.” He lays out a plastic sheet on the ground, tosses some tools onto it, and lies down. In a flash, the dog sprawls across his chest, coating him in mud with its paws.

  “Is Furious a mechanic too?”

  “He knows how to fetch some tools. Pretty good assistant.” Probably better than me, since I don’t even know what half those things are called.

  As I finish my coffee, I hop down from the platform and watch him stretch out to grab a tool. I crouch down and push it toward him.

  “How’s it going?” I ask as he looks up at me.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Then he pulls out an earbud.

  “Almost done.”

  “You built this trailer yourself?” I take the chance to ask while the others aren’t around to cut me off the moment they notice my questions annoy him.

  “It’s more of an expedition vehicle.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Not all by myself.”

  “Are you an actual mechanic?”

  “You doubt my skills?”

  “No, you got the car running in the middle of a storm, and car-related stuff seems to excite you… it’s just that you don’t look like a mechanic.”

  “And what does a mechanic look like?”

  “Uhh…”

  “A chubby cartoon pig or one of those beefed-up, tattoo-covered guys who could double as a vintage porn star?” I struggle not to laugh when he raises an eyebrow challengingly.

  “The mechanics I’ve met don’t look like you.”

  “I’m a mechanic. Do you want proof?”

  “I imagine you have a way to prove it. What about your family? You said your dad was Korean, but you don’t have distinct Asian features.”

  “Italian ancestry on my mom’s side. Want my full family tree too? Why the interrogation?”

  “It’s not an interrogation. Just curiosity. People do that when they’re getting to know each other. You know, basic human interaction.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m a robot sent to exterminate nosy humans.”

  “You don’t like talking much — especially about yourself.”

  “And you can’t stand silence. Afraid of a little deep introspection?”

  “Are you implying I’m… shallow?”

  “No, I’m suggesting you meditate. In silence. Away from me.”

  “Does just being near me bother you?”

  “Yes.”

  Why?

  I’d sound like an idiot if I asked that. It’d make me look needy and insecure — especially after last night’s conversation, where he already made it clear he doesn’t want to get to know me.

  Besides, he’d probably just say, ‘Because I can. I have the right not to like you, and he wouldn’t be wrong.

  But it’s frustrating. He hates me for no reason. He has to have a reason.

  He’s so arrogant.

  Me? Superficial? Coming from the guy who can’t hold a simple conversation for more than a few minutes?

  I head back to the platform, keeping my distance. But with no signal, there’s nothing to do except watch him work and wait for the sun to rise.

  He’s unbearable. He doesn't want me near him, doesn't want my help. Fine, I’ll just read through some scripts for my upcoming interviews.

  The mechanic finishes up, and as he walks back to the truck, I glance up — only to grin when I spot a grease smudge on his cheek, making him look like Rambo.

  I start to point out the smudge, tapping my own cheek—when the mechanic shoots daggers at me.

  “Stop smiling at me,” he grumbles, adjusting his wristwatch, visibly irritated.

  But seeing his frustration, the way his cheeks puff before he huffs, still with that grease stain — it just makes me grin wider.

  He sets the toolbox on the platform. A metal step lowers from the edge, serving as a high foothold. I notice his effort, but he climbs up easily despite his height.

  He strips off his jumpsuit and heads straight to the kitchen sink, tossing his gloves into the trash before washing his hands.

  Then, he starts pulling ingredients from the cabinet.

  “Need help?”

  “No. But if you want, you can make yourself… a green juice?” He sets a blender on the counter.

  Oh, I see. Discreetly trying to belittle me, like some narcissist.

  “Want one too?” I ignore his provocation again.

  “Ohhh… no, thank you.” He rolls his eyes, still focused on his task.

  “I make a delicious one.”

  “I don’t doubt that YOU find it delicious.”

  “Just because you think I watch what I eat? You saw me devour that lasagna yesterday — no regrets.”

  “Hence the green juice today? Or protein? Or whatever it is people are into these days?”

  “I’m not preparing for any specific role right now. My only dietary restrictions are my own.”

  “Your own restrictions to keep yourself... ahem… like that. That body isn’t just good genetics and a balanced diet.”

  “Thanks for noticing the dedication.” I turn his judgment into a compliment and smirk, daring him to challenge me.

  “Oh, sure,” he replies through gritted teeth, rolling his eyes, dripping with sarcasm.

  “What are you making?”

  “Rolls.”

  “Zoe mentioned she liked them.”

  “Yeah, and they’re not that hard to make, even though I don’t cook much.”

  “I’ll make you a healthy and delicious smoothie to try.” I decide, opening the fridge. “Not everything healthy tastes bad.”

  “Most of it just tastes like nothing. No salt, no fat, no anything…”

  A few minutes later, I watch Sam set a timer as the mixer hums, and I hand him a glass, just as promised.

  “You just need a skull on the front to really sell the whole witch’s potion aesthetic.” He stares at the murky greenish-purple liquid. “But hey, at least it doesn’t taste like freshly cut grass.”

  “You’ve eaten grass?”

  “You’ve never face-planted? I know what grass and dirt taste like.” He answers, focused on his dough, running a spatula along the edges of the bowl.

  Holding his breath, puffing out his cheeks — Rambo-style intensity unlocked.

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “I put my hands out and don’t land face-first.”

  “Well, I don’t have reflexes that good. Not having my glasses on didn’t help either.”

  He pauses his work, and takes another sip of my irresistible smoothie…

  And I see him do it.

  He notices that I saw. “It’s not that bad.” His words sound like they physically pain him to admit.

  “So, it’s not that bad?” I lean in, loving every second of this.

  “It’s actually… pretty decent.” He turns back to the dough, ignoring me.

  But his irritation just makes it funnier — especially when he presses his tongue against his cheek, highlighting the grease smeared across his face.

  I swipe my finger across it, about to show him the evidence…

  Then I meet his Bombastic Side Eye.

  Oh. My. God.

  What. Have. I. Done?