And he wants me to know it.
The cooler hums. My hands are shaking. I think about calling Nate.
I won’t.
Not yet.
But I keep the card.
Because I have a feeling I’m going to need him.
And I’m not just talking about protection.
2
Nate
“Most people lie with their words. Some lie with their smiles. Greta? She just lied with silence.”
I’m sitting in my truck across from the diner, hands on the wheel, engine off, the kind of stillness most people can’t sit in. But I’m not most people.
Never have been.
Greta Pine, as her apron name tag says in a curvy little font—waved me off with that bright smile of hers like everything was just peach pie and sunshine.
But somethingchanged.
She was laughing with me one second—hell, I made her laugh, which is not an everyday win—and then she went to bus a table and came back looking like she’d seen a ghost. Skin pale, eyes too wide, shoulders tense in a way that screamedfight or flight—and knowing Greta, she'd rather fight.
I know what that looks like.
I’vebeenthat.
She tried to cover it. But I don’t miss much, and I never missthat.
So here I sit, windows fogging slightly as the last customers trickle out of Sugar Pine Diner, and Greta locks the front door behind them with that tired little tug she does when she thinks no one's watching.
I’m watching.
And I’m starting to think maybe I should’ve never stopped.
The truth is—I like her.
More than I should. More than I’ve let on. More than I’ve admitted, even to myself. It snuck up on me. Her laugh. Her sass. That gentle way she always adds an extra spoonful of sugar to my coffee like she’s trying to win me over one mug at a time.
Greta’s…soft. Not weak. But warm. Sweet. She’s got curves that make me forget how to breathe some days and eyes that could talk a man into laying down his weapons. But it’s not just her looks that have me watching her now like she might slip through my fingers.
It’s the way shecares. The way she remembers Mr. Canter’s fake nut allergy just so he feels seen. The way she keeps Band-Aids in her apron for the dish boy who’s clumsy as hell. The way she always,alwayssmiles first—even when I know for a fact the world hasn’t always been kind to her.
Which is why it’s bothering me so damn much that something scared her just now—and she won’t say what.
I pull out my phone.
Micah Hunt is one of my oldest contacts. War-brother, tracker, stubborn bastard. If anyone can help me make sense of this… it’s him.
He picks up on the second ring, voice a little gravel, like he was chopping wood and only half cares who’s calling.
“Bishop.”
