“Yeah,” she murmured to the swamp. “We better be.”
Chapter Seven
The lights at Harvey’s Cabins glowed low, a handful of porch bulbs cutting through the night like memory—warm, tired, and just bright enough to remind him how late it was.
Buddy parked in front of Fallon’s place, shut off the engine, and sat there long enough for the crickets to fill the silence. The air hung thick with salt and swamp—Florida’s version of grief.
Trent was stable.
The doctor had said it three times, like Buddy wouldn’t believe him.
He’d seen the man himself—gray, pale, still managing to charm two nurses and make Dove blush hard enough to color the entire room. That was damn near impossible to do. But if those two lasted more than a week, it would be a miracle.
Buddy half expected to find Fallon at the hospital. Of course, he’d been late getting there, and she’d already left. So he came here—because he had to see her. Had to make sure she was actually fine.
Her house sat quiet except for the low hum of her AC unit kicking on and off. The porch light was still on, a habit she’d picked up after the night her friend disappeared. She’d told him that once, offhand, like it was nothing. But he knew better. People left lights on for ghosts.
He stepped onto the porch, boots whispering over the wood, and knocked.
A second later, the door opened. She stood in cutoff shorts and a thin tank, hair in a messy knot, eyes tired but alert. She looked like someone who’d spent the last few hours replaying every second of her near miss—and then kept going because that’s what she did. She was strong that way. One of the strongest people he knew. He admired her. Adored her.
The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. But he knew he’d already done that, and he couldn’t do it again.
“Hey,” she said quietly.
“Hey, back.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” She hesitated, fingers still on the door. “I was just watching some stupid reality show. Women screaming at each other. It’s a lesson in mental health and my guilty pleasure.”
He chuckled. “I can’t picture you watching that crap.”
Fallon’s lips curved to a smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “Oh, it’s freaking hilarious. It’s better than watching Silas and old man Peters play chess while waving guns at each other.”
“That is something,” he said, holding her gaze. “I wanted to see you.”
She blinked, that slow kind of blink that tried to hide too many thoughts. “You could’ve texted.”
“That would be communicating through words. I wanted to see you with my eyes while I had a conversation with you. Not the same thing.”
“Semantics.” She opened the door wider. “Come in.”
The house smelled faintly of cider and cinnamon. Her boots sat by the door, next to a half-unpacked crate marked TESSA PROJECT—SUPPLIES. He followed her into the kitchen, where she reached for two glasses and a dusty whiskey bottle with a peeling label.
“You look like you need this more than I do,” she said, pouring generously.
“Probably true.” He took the glass when she handed it over. Their fingers brushed. Warm. Comfortable. Familiar. And yet, utterly frightening.
They drank in silence for a while, the kind of silence that had shape—thick with things neither wanted to say first.
She set down her glass with a soft clink. “Trent could’ve died today—for me.”
“But he didn’t.”
“He didn’t have to do anything but call it in,” she said. “What he did was just plain crazy and his mother was in tears when they brought him in. I was waiting for her famous lecture about being reckless, but then she turned to me and told me how grateful she’d been that he’d been there. That he’d done the right thing, just like his father would’ve done if he’d still been alive. What a mind fuck.”
“Fallon—”
She held up her hand. “I keep thinking what if he hadn’t been there. What if Harley hadn’t been there? What if I hadn’t seen that oil slick? It's just luck. Dumb, stupid luck that any of us made it out. Change one thing and we're having a completely different conversation .”
