Tom smirks. “I’ll get in touch with Micah and Hale. See what we can pull on this Carrick fella. You sure you’re good watching her?”
Nate’s gaze slides to me. It’s protective, possessive, and something else I can’t quite name.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got her.”
Tom claps him on the shoulder. “Then I’ll sleep easier tonight.”
He leaves with his men, the bell jingling behind him.
The diner is quiet again, except for my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Nate exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders like a fighter coming down after a match.
I glance at the broken table, the shattered dishes, the splattered coffee. “Guess that’s one way to close up.”
He looks at me then—really looks—and for a moment, the danger fades.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“I will be,” I say. And for the first time, I almost believe it.
Because if Nate Bishop’s standing between me and the past I ran from, then maybe—just maybe—I’ve finally stopped running.
8
Nate
I shouldn’t have done it in front of her.
I know better than to let the switch flip where a civilian can see it. But the second those men said Travis’s name and took a step toward Greta, the world narrowed to a single point:keep her safe.The rest—tables breaking, fists meeting faces—was just math.
Now she’s shaking.
“Forget the cleanup,” I say, guiding her out the back. “We’ll handle it tomorrow.”
She nods, small and jerky, like her body’s still catching up to what just happened. I take her hand—warm, trembling, brave—and tuck her close as we cross the lot. Every shadow looks like a man. Every gust of wind sounds like footsteps. I hate it. I hate that she has to live in a world where that’s true.
“Breathe for me,” I murmur, opening the truck door and settling her inside. “In. Out. That’s it.”
She matches me—one breath, then another. By the time I round the hood and climb in, the worst of the shake is gone. Not all of it. Enough.
The drive is quiet. Frost spiderwebs the corners of the windshield, the wipers whining every few seconds. Greta’s hands are folded tight in her lap. I want to pull over and gather her up and swear the world won’t touch her again. I keep driving. Getting her home is the promise I can make right now.
At the cabin, I scan the tree line out of habit. Clean. I unlock the door, step aside, and let her in first.
As soon as the latch clicks behind us, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the diner.
“Come here,” I say, softer than I feel.
She does.
She walks into my arms like she belongs there, forehead to my chest, fingers fisting in my shirt. I wrap her up and let my chin rest in her hair. We stand like that while the silence settles back over the room, the fireplace ticking, the dog circling his bed and dropping with a sigh big enough to count as commentary.
“I’m sorry,” I say into her hair. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.”
She shakes her head against me. “You kept me safe.”
“That doesn’t make the rest pretty.”
“Pretty’s overrated.” She tilts back to look at me. Her eyes are still wide, still glassy, but there’s steel in there too. “He sent men to scare me. You scared them back. I liked your math.”
