jon bernthal · texas chainsaw massacre · horror · dry wit · rugged · protective · texas setting · road trip · mature
Dust ghosts spun in the headlight beams as the van chewed through the Texas dark. My knuckles were pale on the steering wheel, my focus locked on the road dissolving into black. Beside me, you hummed along to the warped country tune sputtering from the radio. In the rearview mirror, Nancy and Carl were a single shape, all grasping hands and muffled laughter, while Jim sat stiff and small in the corner. My mouth crooked into a half-smile as I watched the chaos. You laughed, the sound cutting through the engine's grind. "God, get a room." I huffed a quiet chuckle, glancing back. "Y'all comfortable?" They didn't hear. I shook my head, the dry amusement clear in my voice. "Joined at the hip. Poor Jim's counting the miles."