My fingers curl around the plastic lying on the passenger seat. The mask waits there—white, smooth, and cold beneath my skin.
It started as a joke. A way to scare her off, remind her the ridge can’t be tamed.
Now it feels like armor.
Something that lets me be near her without crossing the line completely.
I slip it on. The air inside smells faintly of rain and my own breath.
The world narrows through the slits—focused, contained, almost calm.
When I step out of the truck, the earth is soft, sucking lightly at my boots. The smell of grapes and wet soil mixes with the faint tang of metal from the mask’s chains.
Her house looms ahead, half-wrapped in fog.
Through the kitchen window, she moves—barefoot, restless, still in that soft T-shirt that clings in ways that undo every part of my discipline.
She laughs into the phone, and the sound hits me low in the chest.
It’s not for me, but I feel it anyway.
I should turn around. Leave.
Be the man who protects this valley instead of haunting it.
But when she turns toward the window—towardme—and her brow furrows just slightly, I stop breathing.
She can’t see my face. Only the faint gleam of the mask’s smooth surface catching the porch light.
Her hand freezes mid-motion.
Then she shakes her head, convincing herself she imagined it, and walks away.
The ache in my chest sharpens.
It shouldn’t thrill me that she saw me.. But it does.
Exiting my truck, I creep through the darkness. Every movement is deliberate, quiet, as I step closer to the porch. The mask hollows the sound of my breath until it doesn’t even feel like mine.
I set her flashlight—the one she dropped the first night—on the porch railing. The mud’s cleaned off. I even replaced the batteries.
A peace offering.
Or maybe a promise.
I linger long enough to see her shadow cross the upstairs window again, the movement slow, unguarded.
Long enough for my pulse to sync with hers.
I tell myself the mask keeps her safe from me. But deep down, I know the truth.
It’s the only thing that lets me keep getting closer to her.
The wind moves through the vines, carrying her scent. Honey. Wild and alive.
It slides through the slits of the mask until it fills my lungs.
“Sleep well, sunshine,” I murmur, my voice muffled and low.
