“You’re imagining things.”
I glance over my shoulder.
Boone stands a few feet away, leaning casually against one of the wooden posts of the dock.
Sunlight glints off the river behind him.
He looks entirely too relaxed for someone who just watched me lose another fishing battle.
“You sabotaged me,” I accuse.
“I absolutely did not.”
“You’re clearly protecting the fish.”
“I’m protecting the river’s ecosystem.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
Boone laughs again and walks over beside me.
Six months ago I didn’t know places like this existed.
Now—
This dock.
This lake.
This quiet life.
They feel like home.
The morning sun spreads across the water, turning the surface gold.
The air smells like pine trees and fresh coffee drifting from the house behind us.
And for once—
There are no alarms.
No countdown clocks.
No collapsing systems.
Just the sound of water gently moving against the dock.
Boone rests his arm lightly around my shoulders.
“You’re getting better,” he says.
“That’s not what the fish think.”
“You caught three yesterday.”
“They were small.”
“They still count.”
