Gabriel's hands soaping over those broad shoulders, water running down his chest, steam fogging the mirror...
I splash cold water on my face at the kitchen sink. This is exactly what I can't be thinking about.
When Gabriel emerges twenty minutes later, he's traded the uniform for dark jeans a navy henley that clings to his chest like a second skin. His hair is still damp, and he looks younger somehow, less intimidating but infinitely more dangerous to my peace of mind.
"Smells incredible in here," he says, moving to help me carry plates to the small dining table.
"Nothing special. Just spaghetti carbonara." I'm proud my voice sounds steady, even though my pulse is doing the Macarena.
We settle at the table, and for a few minutes we eat in comfortable silence. The food is good, but I can barely taste it with Gabriel sitting across from me, his presence filling the space between us like heat from a forge.
"Tell me about New York," he says eventually, twirling pasta with surprising grace for such large hands. "What did you love about it? What do you miss?"
My chest tightens. Simple question, loaded implications. Like he's asking what might make me leave, what might call me back.
"The energy," I say carefully, testing the words. "The way the city never sleeps. You can walk down the street at three in the morning and still find life, sometimes you need the world to be awake when you can't sleep."
Despite myself, I find myself talking. About my mother, about the long afternoons we'd spend in Central Park when the chemo made her too tired for anything else. About the way she'd read Pride and Prejudice to me even when her voice was barely a whisper, about the apartment that felt too big and too quiet after she died.
I don't tell him about uncle Richard. Don't mention Rosewood or the fact that I'm running from it all. But I give him pieces of myself I haven't shared with anyone in years, and he listens with the kind of focused attention that makes me feel like I'm the only person in the universe.
"What about you?" I ask when I run out of safe stories. "Have you always wanted to be sheriff?"
Gabriel's smile is crooked, almost sheepish. "Actually, I wanted to be a carpenter when I was a kid. Build houses, fix things with my hands." He gestures around the kitchen. "This place was my compromise. Protect people during the day, rebuild something at night."
"That's quite a shift from carpentry to law enforcement."
His expression grows serious, and for a moment he's quiet, rolling his whiskey glass between his palms. "Growing up, I watched my father hurt my mother for years. Watched her make excuses, watched her choose to stay." His voice is carefully controlled, like he's reciting facts instead of reliving trauma. "I was too young to do anything then. Too small to be the protection she needed."
He takes a slow sip, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid. "Joined the Marines right out of high school. Figured if I was going to fight, might as well learn how to do it right. Came back knowing that sometimes protecting people requires more than good intentions. Sometimes it requires a badge and the authority to use it."
There's a story there, layers of pain and purpose that run deeper than what he's sharing. The way his jaw tightens when he mentions his father, the careful distance in his voice when he talks about his mother.
But I don't push. We're both experts at sharing just enough truth to seem open while keeping the dangerous parts locked in vaults.
We finish dinner and move to clean up, falling into an easy rhythm that feels dangerously domestic. Gabriel washeswhile I dry, and every time our hands brush passing dishes, electricity shoots straight up my arm.
"Stars are out tonight," Gabriel says, moving to the window. "Want to sit by the fire pit for a while?"
My pulse jumps at the suggestion, but I nod. "That sounds perfect."
Gabriel grabs a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet and two glasses. Outside, he lights the fire pit with practiced efficiency while I settle into one of the Adirondack chairs. The flames catch quickly, casting dancing shadows across his face and warming the cool evening air.
"Whiskey?" he offers, holding up the bottle.
"I don't drink," I say quickly, then feel compelled to explain when he raises an eyebrow. "Bad experience once. That was enough."
He nods without judgment and pours himself two fingers of amber liquid, settling into the chair beside mine. The fire crackles between us, and above, the Montana sky spreads out like a blanket of diamonds on black velvet.
"Jesus, I've never seen so many stars," I breathe, tilting my head back to take in the impossible expanse of light.
"City lights make you forget they're there," Gabriel says, his voice softer now. "Out here, you can see the universe the way it's supposed to be seen."
I watch the flames dance and try not to watch Gabriel, but it's impossible. The firelight plays across his features,highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the way his lips curve around the rim of his glass.
A cool breeze stirs the air, and I shiver without meaning to.
"Cold?" Gabriel asks immediately, already rising from his chair.
