“Don’t get out yet,” Noah said.

My hand froze on the door handle.

For one ridiculous second, I thought I had escaped one danger just to create a new one.

I had climbed into the wrong car, slept beside a stranger for twenty minutes, insulted him twice, and then allowed him to drive me home because my phone was dying and my legs felt like they belonged to someone else.

Now the stranger was telling me not to leave.

I turned slowly.

“Please don’t make this weird.”

“I’m trying not to.” Noah’s voice had changed.

The teasing was gone, replaced by a calm seriousness that made the car feel even quieter.

He nodded toward my building.

“Your lobby door is propped open, and the light inside just went out.”

I looked through the tinted window.

He was right.

The entrance to my apartment building sat open like a mouth, one side of the door caught against the brick that tenants used when the lock jammed.

The ceiling light that usually buzzed above the mailboxes had gone dark.

It was not the first time.

That was the worst part.

It was so familiar to me that I had stopped reacting to it.

“It’s always like that,” I said.

Noah studied me, and something in his expression tightened.

“That doesn’t make it safe.”

“No, but it makes it home.”

I grabbed my backpack harder than necessary and pulled it onto my lap.

That was when I felt the zipper hanging loose under my fingers.

My stomach dropped.

I opened the bag and shoved my hand inside.

Pens.

Wallet.

Crumpled café apron.

Half a granola bar.

A rent notice I had folded until the paper felt like cloth.

But not the blue notebook.

No, no, no.

I dumped the bag onto the floor mat before pride could stop me.

Coins rolled under the seat.

A highlighter bounced against Noah’s polished shoe.

My cheeks burned, but I barely cared.

“What’s missing?” he asked.

My voice came out thin.

“My exam notebook.”

“The one that was sticking out when you got in?”

I looked at him sharply.

“You noticed that?”

“You climbed into my car half-asleep carrying a backpack that looked heavier than you were.

Yes, I noticed.” He leaned forward.

“James, interior lights, please.”

Soft light filled the back seat.

James, the driver, glanced in the mirror without turning around.

“Everything all right, sir?”

“We’re looking for a blue notebook.”

I hated how quickly both men moved, not because they were rude, but because they were efficient.

James stepped out and opened the front passenger door.

Noah shifted the leather floor mats with careful hands.

I crouched low, patting beneath the seat, my heartbeat getting louder with every empty second.

The exam was at eight in the morning.

It was the hardest one of the semester.

Every practice problem I had solved between café shifts was in that notebook.

Every formula.

Every professor warning.

Every desperate page I had copied while fighting sleep at the library.

Without it, I was not just unprepared.

I was exposed.

“Found it,” Noah said.

He reached under the front seat and pulled out the battered blue spiral notebook.

Relief hit so suddenly my eyes stung.

Then a folded sheet slid from between the pages and landed faceup on