“Exactly,” she said.
He typed a quick reply.
We’ll be there. And we’ll stick to well-lit, populated places.
He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked at her. “We can head in if you want,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel exposed out here.”
She glanced around; the cove was still as quiet as it had been, the only other boat a distant speck near the horizon.
“I feel safer here with you than I did in my own apartment a month ago,” she said. “Let’s steal a little more time before we go back in. Diaz has us; we’re not alone in this.”
He nodded, some of the tension easing. “Deal,” he said.
They sat there together, watching the light play on the water, talking about small things: paint colors, tool brands, whether Brian would survive if they banned neon in the shop. They argued, cheerfully, about the merits of teal in a bathroom; he lost, mostly willingly.
On the ride back in, Bree sat at the bow, hair whipping in the wind, one hand curved around the rail. She looked back at him over her shoulder, joy clear on her face; the sight lodged in his chest like a promise.
At the dock, he helped her out of the boat and returned the keys. The teenager barely looked up, mumbling “have a nice day” as he shoved the clipboard into a plastic bin.
They walked along the harbor path toward town, hands brushing, then twining. The sounds of Copper Moon grew louder with each step; kids shouting near the fountain, someone busking with a guitar, the clink of dishes from café patios.
“Tomorrow,” Bree said, “we talk to Diaz and hear how big this thing really is.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“After that,” she went on, “we go back to the warehouse and argue about whether the shop bathroom can be teal.”
He smiled. “I thought we settled that.”
“We settled that I’m right,” she said. “You’ll come around.”
He laughed. “Probably.”
“And somewhere in there,” she said, “we call the realtor Diaz’s assistant recommended and start looking at houses.”
He looked at her, at the way she said houses like a thing she believed in now. “You sure you want to tie yourself to a mortgage with a guy whose idea of a good time is running spreadsheets on part shipments?” he asked.
“I just had sex with you on a boat,” she said matter-of-factly. “I think I’m pretty in.”
He felt the grin spread across his face, unstoppable. “Fair,” he said.
They reached an intersection; the light changed. Across the street, a dark sedan paused at the stop sign, then turned the other way, disappearing into the flow of traffic. Hank’s muscles tightened for a second, then eased when he saw the local dealership plate frame.
Bree noticed; her fingers tightened briefly in his. He squeezed back.
“Awareness,” she murmured.
“Not paranoia,” he finished.
They crossed together, stepping into the bright patch of afternoon that lay over Main Street. Copper Moon bustled around them: imperfect, messy, alive.
The threat was out there; they both knew it. A network of people who would rather stay in the shadows. A supplier with a grudge. A sedan with a plate that pinged in three states.
But they were not alone.
They had Diaz and her sharp eyes, the mayor and her stubborn pride, Jason and his honest tape measure, Colby and his spreadsheets, and Brian with his unshakeable loyalty. They had a warehouse that was about to become a shop and a studio, a future painted in light and grease and color.
And they had each other.
