“I’m okay,” I said.“Twitchy.Not drowning.”
His shoulders relaxed a fraction.“Twitchy works.I can work with twitchy.”
We stepped outside into air cold enough to sting.Salt rode the wind, sharp and clean.Snow softened the uneven boards of the front steps.The street below held parked trucks and quiet houses, smoke curling from chimneys, holiday lights already wrapped around a few porches even though December had only just begun.Neighbors waved sometimes.No one asked questions that dug too deep.
We took the path down the hill toward the harbor.The trail cut through scrub pine and bare brush, then opened to a wooden walkway along the waterfront.The boardwalk creaked under our boots.Fishing boats bobbed gently, ropes groaning against cleats.Above the pier, gulls circled, white flashes against low gray clouds.
For a while we walked in simple silence.Our breaths fogged the air in twin clouds.His hand stayed wrapped around mine, his thumb moving in small circles against my glove.Those circles meant he was counting steps, measuring distance, cataloging exit points even here.Safety never came automatic for him.
Halfway down the dock, we stopped near the end where the water deepened and the town dropped away behind us.The horizon line faded into pale mist.The world narrowed to cold, waves, and the man beside me.
“That one’s new,” I said, pointing with my chin toward a bright blue boat near the far slip.“Name like that deserves side-eye.”
Gabe squinted.“Sea-duction.”
“Criminal,” I said.“Who allowed that?”
“Old man D’Amico.Went out last week.Proud as hell.I heard him in the store telling someone he still had game.”
I laughed, a small sound that turned to steam.“Fishing game, maybe.”
His smile lingered.“Leave the man his delusions, Mrs.Chen.”
That name had settled around us slowly, like snow, until use felt natural.Legal documents matched now.Bank accounts, tax forms, library cards, health records.David and Sarah Chen lived in this town as far as anyone official knew.
Yet in quiet moments, he still called me Mia.I still called him Gabe.
“Careful,” I said.“Someone might overhear and think we are respectable.”
He slid an arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer against the wind.“We are respectable.You pay taxes.I fix cameras and make security plans for local businesses.We argue about grocery lists.No bodies in the basement.”
“No basement,” I said.
He huffed a quiet laugh.The sound vibrated through his chest into my side.For a second, I leaned into that warmth, closed my eyes, and let the ocean noise fill the gaps the storm had carved through my brain two winters back.
A gull screamed overhead and snapped me back.The sound cut close enough to gunfire to hit old nerves.My body jolted before my mind caught up.Gabe’s arm tightened.
“Hey,” he murmured.“Here.Not there.”
“Working on it.”
We stood together while the snow thickened, letting flakes land on our lashes and melt into cold drops.The harbor noises settled into a rhythm at our backs.Somewhere behind us, the little grocery on Main would already have the “Open” sign glowing for early customers.Someone in town would be talking about the incoming storm and whether the plows would keep up.Life moved forward in a quiet way that would have seemed impossible once.
“Got a message from Marcus yesterday,” Gabe said after a minute.
The old forger had become our one continued link to a world we otherwise abandoned.The name still carried risk and comfort in equal measure.
“What did he say?”I asked.
Gabe’s jaw worked before he spoke.“Russo organization cut the contract a few months ago.New leadership keeps a tighter focus on immediate profit, less on old grudges.There are still people who remember, but no one is paying for the hunt.”
The news dropped into my chest and sank slowly.No flood of relief arrived.No switch flipped.Habits built on fear did not vanish because men in suits changed priorities.Yet something uncoiled a little deeper inside, a wire that had stayed tensioned from the night he dragged me out of my father’s house.
“So we are… what?”I asked.“Free?”
“Safer.Never completely safe.”He tipped his head, accepting the truth.“Marcus still recommended caution.Different enemies exist.Volkovs, other families, old rivals.No one has forgotten my name inside those circles, even if yours never reached their ledgers.”
“They can keep my name off their lists,” I said.
