I was already out of the truck, gun in hand, moving fast and low. I saw the muzzle flare again in the treeline and fired back, my shots cracking through the mist.
“Get inside!” I yelled. “Go!”
She scrambled on hands and knees toward the side of the house. Another shot screamed over her head, blowing out the porch light.
I put myself between her and the trees, firing in short bursts, forcing the shooter to duck. The deeper shadows swallowed him, but I tracked movement—a shape breaking away, running.
Coward.
I moved toward the tree line, but Julia’s voice cut through the adrenaline. “Hawk! Don’t!”
I swore under my breath and backed toward the house, keeping my gun trained on the woods until I hit the siding. The engine of a truck roared to life somewhere in the dark, then faded down the old service road.
Silence fell, heavy and ringing.
“You hit?” I asked, turning toward her.
She sat on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, one hand pressed to her upper arm. Blood smeared her fingers.
“It’s fine,” she said, voice shaking. “Just grazed.”
“Let me see.”
“Hawk, I—”
“Julia,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “Let. Me. See.”
She glared at me but dropped her hand. The wound was shallow, a red groove along her bicep. It could’ve been a lot worse.
I forced my hands to steady as I ripped open a drawer,found a dish towel, and pressed it gently against the cut. She hissed through her teeth, knuckles white, as she grabbed the towel.
“You’re okay,” I murmured. “You’re okay.”
“Define okay,” she said weakly.
“You’re still arguing with me,” I said. “That counts.”
Outside, the wind rattled the gutter. Somewhere down the lake, a dog barked once, then went quiet.
She looked up at me, eyes wide and dark. “You don’t have to protect me.”
“Yeah,” I said, something hot and tight rising in my chest. “I do.”
“That’s not your job,” she whispered.
“It’s the only job I want,” I shot back.
The words hung between us, heavier than the storm, heavier than the blood on her arm.
Her lips parted, like she wanted to say something, but whatever it was died before it reached her mouth. She looked away.
I swallowed, forcing myself to pull back. “Come on. I need to clean this properly. Where’s your first-aid kit?”
“Bathroom,” she said quietly. “Under the sink.”
I found it, brought it back, and went to work. Disinfectant, sterile pads, and tape. She watched me in silence, only flinching once when the alcohol hit the raw skin.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
