I swallow. “That’s… not comforting.”
Jack’s hand presses a little firmer at my back, grounding me. “I’m watching too.”
The words send a warm shiver through me.
Another firework blooms—red this time, spilling across the sky like spilled paint. The crowd oohs.
I realize my hand is still in Jack’s. I squeeze without thinking.
Jack squeezes back immediately.
My pulse jumps.
I turn toward him fully now, face tipped up. “Jack…”
His gaze drops to my mouth again, and I can feel the moment teetering—right on the edge of something. He leans down just slightly, his voice so low it feels like a secret meant only for my skin. “After this,” he murmurs, “you’re coming with me.”
My breath catches. “Coming… where?”
His eyes hold mine—storm-dark, certain. “Home,” he whispers. “I’m taking you home.”
The last firework detonates overhead—so loud the ground seems to shake—but all I can hear is the quiet certainty in his voice.
And the way my body answers it like it’s been waiting all day.
SIX
JACK
The fireworks end, but my job doesn’t.
The crowd is still buzzing—people laughing, drifting toward their trucks, kids half-asleep on shoulders, couples lingering like they’ve got nowhere else to be but under string lights and a Texas sky. The band packs up slowly. The last notes hang in the air like smoke.
Stella stays beside me, warm at my side, her hand still in mine like it belongs there.
It shouldn’t.
And yet.
She’s looking up at the sky like she can still see the afterimage of gold bursts, cheeks flushed, eyes bright—until she turns her face toward me and that smile softens into something that knocks the air out of my lungs.
“Home,” I’d told her.
Now I have to make it real.
I scan the crowd again, reflex and instinct doing their thing. The men I’m watching don’t know I’m watching them. That’s the point. I clock faces, movements, pockets, hands. I mark the blue F-150 Wyatt mentioned. I mark the guy who keeps glancing toward Stella even after she’s stopped moving. I mark the man near the gate who shifts when he sees me looking.
Then I feel Stella’s fingers squeeze mine.
I look down.
“You’re doing the thing,” she says, voice low.
“The thing?”
“The scary hawk thing,” she whispers. “Where you look like you’re about to tackle a stranger.”
I should smile. I should keep it light.
