The music from inside dulled behind us as we wandered past the parking lot and onto the path that led into the woods behind the bar. The trail was barely lit—just moonlight slipping through branches and the occasional shimmer of fairy lights someone had strung up long ago and forgotten. It smelled like pine sap and damp leaves, and her perfume—something clean and soft, like cotton sheets after a thunderstorm. Her scent wrapped around me with every breath.
She stopped walking just as the music disappeared completely and turned to me like she’d made a decision.
Then she kissed me.
No hesitation. No question. Just fingers in my shirt and mouth on mine like she’d waited years to do it.
I kissed her back.
God, I kissed her back like it was the only thing I’d ever been good at.
It wasn’t frantic, but it was fierce. Her hands were everywhere—my neck, my chest, the waistband of my jeans—and I couldn’t think past the sound of her breathing or the press of her body against mine. She backed me up against a tree, her thighs pressing between mine, and I let her take what she needed. I wanted to give her more.
We didn’t talk.
We didn’t need to.
The cicadas sang. The forest held its breath. Her mouth found the edge of my jaw, the hollow of my throat. Then I took control. We moved deeper into the forest, stripping clothes enough to feel everything—skin on skin, bark at my back, her fingers tangled in my hair as she moved against me, hot and hungry and gone.
It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t sweet. It was something between. Like we both knew it would end but didn’t want to rush a second of it.
She came apart in my arms, shaking as her moan echoed through the trees.
When it was over, when we were both catching our breath beneath the heavy silence of the woods, she didn’t kiss me again. She just looked at me—eyes wide, wild, like she wasn’t sure what she’d just done.
I went to speak when her fingers pressed against my lips. “This doesn’t leave the trees,” she whispered.
I wanted more—for her to give me her phone number and let me take her out on a proper date.
Instead, she was already pulling her skirt back down, smoothing her hair, walking away toward the glow of the bar like she hadn’t just undone me completely.
I stood there for a long time before I followed.
I’d been thinking about her ever since.
Brody was manningthe grill in his backyard like it was a crime scene—calm, focused, unbothered by the smoke curling into his face. He had changed out of his police uniform and flipped a burger with one hand while holding a beer in the other. He had his sleeves pushed up, posture loose.
“So,” he said as I stepped through the gate, “you finally moved in. Nancy didn’t warn you the place was haunted?”
I snorted and let the gate click shut behind me. “Haunted by what? Mosquitoes and drywall rot?” I reached into the cooler at his feet. “Nah, it’s all right.”
He grinned and clinked his bottle against mine. “I’m glad you came by.”
This was how we operated lately—light, easy, like we didn’t have years of missed birthdays and awkward history sitting between us. Brody was a man people looked at and immediately trusted. Solid. Sharp. Sheriff’s deputy of Star Harbor with the kind of reputation small towns carved into stone.
He was also the half brother I didn’t really grow up with.
We didn’t share a roof or happy memories. Just blood. He got the badge and the father who showed up at football games. I got a rusted-out motorcycle and a mom who taught me to dance in the kitchen but forgot to pick me up from school half the time.
Still, after a few awkward phone calls, I showed up here. A few months ago I rolled into town and conveniently stepped upto help out while Wes recovered. At least that was what I told people.
The truth?
I wasn’t exactly sure yet. I wanted to get to know my brother. Brody always seemed just out of reach—like a life I couldn’t have, but something about this place had started to feel like it might let me stay.
We talked about Wes for a while and how Hayes Darling hadn’t been the same since the accident either.
“He’s doing okay,” Brody said, flipping a burger. “Physically at least. Mentally? He’s pacing trenches in his backyard. Sometimes the guy can’t sit still. He thinks it’s his fault that Wes lost his leg.”
