“Hey,” he says, smile easy, voice gentle like we’re normal and this is a normal day. “You okay?”
My shoulders drop without permission, like I’ve been carrying something heavy for weeks and didn’t notice until right now.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, because the lie is reflex, polite and Southern.
His eyes sweep me anyway, slow and careful, like he’s checking for cracks. “You don’t look fine.”
I snort, because that’s easier than admitting anything. “You always this blunt?”
“Only when I’m worried.” His tone is soft, but there’s something under it that makes my stomach tighten. Not hunger. Not a grab. Something else. Something like wanting to be the one who gets to worry.
We walk toward the front together, our carts bumping once before he adjusts his without comment. He doesn’t crowd me. He keeps his hands visible. He does all those little thingsthat say safe, safe, safe. He insists on carrying my bag when we step outside, lifting it from my shoulder like it weighs nothing.
Like that’s just what men do. Like nobody’s watching.
Which is stupid, because Hell always is.
The parking lot is busy in that lazy weekday way, sunlight bleaching everything, heat rising off the asphalt. A couple old men lean against their trucks. A woman wrestles toddlers into booster seats. Somebody pretends not to stare.
I clock it without meaning to. Where the exits are. Who’s looking too long. Which engine is still running. My body’s learned the habit even when my brain wants to stay sweet and stupid.
Elijah doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he notices and doesn’t think it matters, which might be worse.
“I heard some things,” he says when we reach my car, voice dropping out of instinct, respectful like he knows some conversations don’t belong in open air. “About the club.”
My chest tightens. “Everybody has.”
He hesitates, thumb pressing along the spine of that Bible like it’s something that steadies him. “You don’t belong in their world, Brit.”
There it is again, that sentence I keep getting handed like a warning and a verdict. I grip my keys harder, metal biting into my palm. “You keep saying that like I asked you.”
“I’m saying it because I’ve seen what happens to girls who get pulled into it,” he replies. “They don’t come out the same.”
His hand brushes my arm as he passes my bag back. Gentle. Familiar. A touch meant to comfort, not claim. Safe.
For the first time in month, I don’t feel like prey. That’s what makes it dangerous.
He looks at me for a beat like he’s deciding whether to push. Then he doesn’t. He just says, “Let me take you to dinner. Nothing fancy. County line diner. I’ll buy you pie.”
Pie.
Like sugar and a booth and a gentle hand can scrub the taste of fear off my tongue. But at least it’s not Slice.
I hear myself say yes before my brain catches up, because part of me is sick of being alone with my thoughts, and part of me is sick of thinking about a married man who wrote me a note like my name mattered and then pretended he didn’t know me in public.
“I’ll meet you there,” I tell him.
Elijah smiles like he won something, but he doesn’t gloat. He just nods and backs away like a good boy with manners.
As he walks off, I feel it anyway. The way heads tilt. The way a woman by the front doors watches us too long. The way the air changes when you’re seen.
I don’t think about Oaks until later, driving home with my windows down, trying to let the wind scrub the day off my skin. It’s been months. Months of me looking over my shoulder and not seeing Oaks.
And then the betrayal hits.
Because the note is still in my pocket, warm from my body, soft from being handled too many times, and even while I’m saying yes to Elijah’s pie, I’m thinking about the way Oakssaid my name in that diner like it tasted good and dangerous both.
That night, the county line diner smells like hot grease and coffee that’s been sitting too long and small-town gossip simmering under every conversation. Elijah meets me at the door, holds it open like he’s been taught how to be a man. He eases into the booth across from me, pauses and lets me speak first like my voice matters before he orders for himself.
