He steps a little closer, not touching, but close enough that I can smell past the lake water, leather and his soap like the first day I woke up in his bed. Just stands there with that steady, dangerous calm that makes my nerves hum.
“You ain’t got any idea,” he says quiet, “how hard it is to hear you say shit like that and not…”
“Not what?” I press.
His gaze snaps to mine, guarded again. “Don’t start.”
My heart stumbles. I hate how much I like poking at him, how good it feels to make him react when he’s spent weeks acting like he don’t.
“Stay while I eat,” I say, softer now. “Please.”
He studies me, weighing something invisible. Like he’s doing math with consequences.
Then he nods once. “Fine.”
We sit at the little table inside like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I eat fried chicken with my fingers and lick butter from my thumb while he pretends not to notice, which is the funniest damn lie I’ve ever watched somebody commit to.
“This is good,” I say. “Tell Lottie thank you.”
“I will.”
We talk about nothing and everything. The lake. The heat. The search. He tells me they still haven’t found the missing woman. I tell him I read half a book and fell asleep in the sun. He calls me reckless again and I call him a control freak and for a minute it almost feels like we’re just two people sitting in a cabin somewhere far from Hell and Pearly Gates and wives and missing girls.
And then a sharp crack splits the air.
It’s loud. Violent. Not thunder.
Gunshot.
Oaks moves before I even process it. He’s out of his chair and on me in the same breath, knocking me sideways off the chair and onto the floorboards. His body covers mine, solid and heavy, one arm braced over my head, the other pinning me flat.
“Down,” he growls.
My heart is slamming so hard I can’t breathe.
No second shot follows. No shouting. No boat engine revving.
The lake goes eerily quiet.
His hand tightens.
And I realize exactly where it is.
His palm is splayed across my chest, over my breast, like his instincts found me before his brain did.
Heat explodes through me amidst fear.
He freezes.
Slowly, very slowly, he pulls his hand back like it burned him. “Shit,” he mutters, pushing himself up.
He crouches low and moves to the edge of the porch, scanning the water, the treeline, the dock, his whole body wired tight.
I sit up, shaky, pulse roaring in my ears. “Oaks?”
He swears under his breath.
I follow his gaze.
