“You sure everything’s okay?” he asked, voice rasped to nothing.
I glanced down. He was closer than I thought. The mark I’d left on his neck stood out, fresh and purple against his pale skin.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said the first thing that came to mind: “You hungry?”
He smiled, small and crooked. “Always.”
I reached out, thumb tracing the bruise at his throat. He flinched, not from pain, but from something deeper—like I’d just lit a fuse under his skin. He leaned into my touch, eyes fluttering shut.
“You do this to everyone?” he whispered.
The question shot through me, sharp as a fish hook.
“No,” I said. “Never.”
He opened his eyes, searching my face for the lie. I let him look as long as he wanted.
“It was just the sheriff,” I said. “He was checking up on you.”
Jojo nodded. “He used to come by the bakery sometimes. Always asked about my folks.”
“He thinks he’s helping,” I said, voice hard. “He doesn’t know you’re… mine.”
I watched the words land. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. If anything, he moved in closer.
“You sure about that?” he asked.
I nodded, unable to say more.
He wrapped his arms around my waist, fingers digging in like he was trying to anchor himself. He pressed his cheek against my chest. “I don’t want to screw this up,” he said, words muffled.
“You couldn’t,” I answered, and believed it.
We stood like that, the sun warming our us, the land around us waking up in slow motion. A hawk circled overhead, shrieking at the edge of the sky.
I wanted to freeze the moment, but the world never let up. I felt Jojo shiver, so I pulled him tighter. “We should talk,” I said.
He tensed, then relaxed. “About last night?”
I nodded. “About everything.”
He looked up, a challenge in his eyes. “Do you regret it?”
I shook my head. “Not for a second.”
He exhaled, all the tension gone. “Good, because I don’t either.”
There was more to say, but neither of us could find the words. He reached for my hand, laced his fingers through mine, and it felt so natural I wondered if we’d been doing it our whole lives.
We started walking back to the house, side by side.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye—a truck parked half a mile off, just past the north fence line. White, newer model, the kind of shine you only got from a dealership. The shape of a man behind the wheel, engine idling, windows tinted.
My hackles went up.
I kept my eyes on the truck as we walked, running through the possibilities—stranger, neighbor, maybe Hargrove’s flunky. Didn’t matter. The message was clear.
I steered Jojo toward the kitchen door, hand on the small of his back. “Let’s get inside,” I said.
