The heater hums. Trees blur past the windows like black water. Sean has barely spoken since you left the city two hours ago. Not the silence of a tired man — something quieter than that. Something deliberate. You keep watching his hands on the wheel. The way the knuckles sit. The angle of his grip. Small things that don't add up, like a word spelled wrong that you can't stop seeing. He said he needed to show you the cabin. He said it like it was a gift. And now the road is narrowing, the trees are closing in, and the man beside you turns just slightly — not to look at you, but to let you look at him.