When he reached the back passenger window, he wiped a small circle in the condensation with his gloved knuckle.
And saw Caleb.
Small. Motionless except for the faintest rise and fall of his chest.
Derek’s jaw tightened. Something instinctive and immediate moved through him, the same reflex that once made him scan rooftops in unfamiliar cities overseas.
He knocked gently on the glass.
Inside, Caleb shifted faintly but did not wake.
From across the lot, however, the image created a different narrative entirely: a large, tattooed biker leaning toward the back seat of a locked car at nearly four in the morning. Concern did not translate visually from a distance. Suspicion did.
A woman returning her shopping cart paused mid-step.
“What is he doing?” she murmured to her husband.
A college student near the entrance stopped scrolling on his phone and stared.
