The engine dies and the silence rushes in, thick with salt and rust. Ethan's car sits crooked by the loading bay, driver's door hanging open like a wound, and the warehouse looms behind it, corrugated metal swallowing the dark. Derek's hand is still on mine, but I feel his fingers tighten, and the ultrasound picture crinkles against his thigh.

"Stay here." His voice is low, flat, the kind of voice that doesn't expect an answer.

I'm already unbuckling. The seatbelt snaps back against the frame, and I feel the baby shift, a small flutter against my ribs, like it knows we're at the edge of something. "Like hell."

He looks at me then, really looks, and something in his face cracks open and closes just as fast. "Maya—"

"Together," I say, and the word lands like a stone in the space between us. "You said together."

He holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods once, sharp, and pushes open his door. The dome light spills across the cracked asphalt, and I see Ethan step out of the shadows by the loading bay, his shirt untucked, his jaw set. There's a fresh cut across his knuckles, dark and wet, and he's not alone.

The man behind him is built like a wall, arms crossed, watching us with the flat patience of someone who's been waiting a long time. Behind them both, the warehouse door gapes open, black and hungry.

Derek moves in front of me, not quite shielding, but close. "Ethan."

"You shouldn't have come." Ethan's voice is raw, scraped thin. "Either of you."

"Looks like you handled it." Derek nods at the cut knuckles, the man behind Ethan. "Who's your friend?"

Ethan doesn't look away from me. "That's Ray's guy. He says the deal's not dead. He says Mer lied about more than the baby."

The salt wind picks up, carrying the smell of diesel and something sour, and I feel the baby kick again, harder this time. "What else did she lie about?"

The man behind Ethan finally speaks, his voice like gravel shifting. "She told us you'd come alone. That you'd be easy." He looks at me, and there's something cold in his eyes. "She said you were the weak one."

Derek's hand finds my lower back, a steady pressure. "She's wrong."

"She usually is." The man almost smiles. "But she's also the one who told us where Ethan would be. Told us the whole story—the baby, the lie, the garage. Everything." He takes a step forward, and I feel the weight of it. "So now we know exactly what you're carrying. And we know what it's worth."

The words settle into my chest like cold water. Mer didn't just expose the lie. She gave them everything—the address, the timeline, the child. She made us into a target with a price on its head, and Ethan walked straight into it trying to protect me.

"What do you want?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

The man looks at me, then at Derek, then back to me. "Vince's brother wants to see you. Just you. No mechanic, no ex-boyfriend playing hero." He gestures at the warehouse door. "He's inside. He's been waiting for a long time to meet the girl who took down his crew."

Derek's hand tightens on my back. "Not happening."

"It's not a request." The man's voice doesn't change, but something in his posture does. "You come inside, we talk. You don't, we talk anyway—just with more mess." He looks at Ethan's cut knuckles. "Your friend here already learned that."

Ethan's jaw tightens, but he doesn't move. His eyes find mine, and I see something there I haven't seen in a long time—not guilt, not duty. Fear. Real fear, for me.

The baby kicks again, a sharp flutter against my ribs, and I feel it like a question. I could walk away. I could let Derek drag me back to the truck, drive off into the dark, and let Ethan burn behind us. But the man's words are still hanging in the air, and I know—I know—that walking away doesn't end this. It just moves the target.

"Fine," I say, and Derek's hand goes rigid against my back. "I'll go inside."

"Maya—" Derek starts, but I turn to him, and I see it in his face, the fear he's been carrying since the bus, the fear that he's going to lose me to something he can't fight with his hands.

"Together," I say again, softer this time. "But some doors I have to walk through first."

He holds my gaze, and I see the war in him, the part that wants to throw me over his shoulder and drive until the world runs out. But he sees the set of my jaw, the same stubbornness he fell for in a garage three years ago, and he nods, slow, like he's swallowing glass.

The man by the warehouse door watches us, patient as rust. "She's smart. Smart's good." He turns and walks into the dark. "Try to keep up."

Ethan steps aside as I pass, and I catch his eye, the cut on his knuckles still wet, and I see the shape of the words he doesn't say. I'm sorry. I'm still here. I'll be behind you.

And then I'm at the threshold, the warehouse's cool metal under my palm, the salt wind at my back, and Derek's hand is in mine, and we step into the dark together.