The tension bleeds out of her shoulders. She lets out a shaky breath, her smile returning, bright and deeply relieved. “Okay. Good.”
She turns back toward the workbench to start looking for tools, completely unaware that I am watching her with a sickening, heavy knot forming in my gut. I’m protecting her smile tonight, but I know a reckoning is coming for both of us before the week is out.
And I’m not sure what that looks like.
38
RUE
The walkback to the farmhouse feels infinitely lighter than the walk to the barn.
For the first time since we plunged into this nightmare, we have a tangible sliver of hope. A motorcycle. A real, mechanical escape route that doesn’t rely on stealing from gas stations or dodging highway cameras in a recognizable SUV.
As we step through the back door and into the kitchen, the heavy silence of Bill’s house feels less like a trap and more like a sanctuary.
Noah leans heavily against the laminate edge, favoring his left arm. The exhaustion is written in the deep lines around his eyes and the tense set of his jaw, but the frantic, caged-animal energy from earlier has dulled.
“You need to eat,” I tell him, moving past him toward the pantry. “And then you need to wash the barn off you. You smell like old oil and dust.”
Noah lets out a low, tired chuckle. “Yes, ma’am. Now look who’s being all bossy.”
I dig through the shelves, bypassing the canned beans and dusty boxes of cereal until I find a half-empty box of spaghettiand a jar of marinara sauce. It’s not exactly a gourmet meal, but boiling water and stirring pasta feels so incredibly, wonderfullynormal.
I busy myself at the stove, the rhythmic bubbling of the water soothing my frayed nerves. Noah watches me from the small kitchen table. He doesn’t say much, just tracks my movements with those intense blue eyes. It’s a quiet, domestic illusion, but right now, under the cover of the dark Texas sky, I let myself fully surrender to it. I want to be the girl making dinner for the man she loves.
I don’t want to be the girl harboring a fugitive—who shouldn’t even be one.
When the food is ready, I portion it onto two mismatched plates and set one in front of him.
We eat in the dim light of the stove hood. The food is bland, but neither of us cares. We’re starving. Bullet doesn't even wake up to beg for scraps; he remains a tightly coiled, softly snoring ball on the living room rug.
“Shower,” I command softly once Noah pushes his empty plate away.
“Only if you’re coming with me,” he counters, his voice dropping an octave, the raw exhaustion in his tone entirely replaced by a dark, heavy heat.
My breath hitches. I don’t argue.
I follow him down the short hallway into the cramped guest bathroom. The yellow light flickers overhead as Noah reaches in and turns the water on hot. The room fills with steam in seconds, clouding the mirror and masking the grim reality of our bruised and battered bodies.
He turns to me, grabs the hem of my shirt, and then lifts it over my head. I follow his lead, doing the same for him, and then moving to his pants. Noah’s body is becoming a familiar thing—and I like that.
Because I love him.
But apparently, those are words we don’t tell each other.
His arms thread around my waist, and he strips my jeans off, helping me step out of them. My eyes jump to the bandage on his arm.
“Is that bothering you?” I gesture to it, relieved to see it’s not bleeding through.
“Not right now,” he leans down, grabbing my bare ass and pulling me to him. He gives me a long, deep kiss and then guides me to the shower.
I let out a sigh as the warm water hits my bare skin, and the feeling of Noah’s body against mine only heightens the relief. I lean my head back, resting against his chest, and shut my eyes.
This is what life could be like if we were normal. If we could just have some other story than this one.
Noah’s hand snakes up the front of my stomach, cupping my breast. “You’re tired, Rue. You’re always tired.”
“So are you,” my eyes flicker open, meeting his. “It makes sense.”
