That narrative could write itself.
I keep my face neutral and remain seated for a count of five before I rise and head for the door.
Outside, the air is cool against my overheated skin. Luke’s truck isn’t in the front lot. I scan the row twice before the old instinct tries to flare—the one that remembers standing alone too many times.
No. This isn’t that. This is a test. A manipulation of perception. A demonstration that proximity can be weaponized.
I circle toward the back of the building.
“Why the hell are you walking around out here in that?”
I turn and see Luke stepping from the shadows near the side entrance. He’s parked behind the club, away from the main lot, where he has a clear view of who comes and goes.
Relief hits me so hard I don’t bother to contain it. I cross the distance between us, and he catches me midair as I jump into his arms. My legs wrap around his waist without thinking. He steadies me immediately, his hands firm againstmy back.
“Did someone touch you?” he asks.
“No,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “But he’s pushing.”
Luke shifts his weight and sets me on the tailgate of his truck, staying close enough that I can still feel his body heat.
“My text didn’t go through,” he says, pulling out his phone. The screen shows the message beneath mine:Failure to send.
I stare at it.
One message interrupted. One visual of him walking out.
One man sitting still.
That’s all it would take to build a story.
“They can interfere,” I say slowly.
Luke nods. “Or someone jammed the signal in the room. Or we hit a dead spot. I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”
“He wanted you to look,” I say.
“I know.”
“He wanted to see what you’d do.”
“I wanted to drag him out by his collar.”
I almost smile. “That’s why I didn’t sit beside you.”
His hands tighten on my waist, not in anger, but in restraint. “You don’t get to decide alone anymore,” he says, his voice lower now. “Remember?”
“I’m not,” I reply. “I’m trying to keep options open.”
He studies me for a long moment, reading between the lines the way he always does.
“They isolate you first,” he says finally. “That’s how this works. Separate you. Make you look unstable. Make it look like you’re alone.”
“You’re right.”
“That is not happening.” His certainty doesn’t feel impulsive. It feels measured. “Not this time.”
A car idles near the edge of the lot. We both notice it at the same time. Headlights on. Engine running. No one is getting out.
