1
KYRON
The last customer trip had cleared the dock by 4:30. I had the river to myself by five.
That was the part of the day I lived for. No schedule board, no equipment check, no one needing directions to the bathroom or asking whether the Class III section was “really that rough.” Just the paddle and the current and the sound the water made when there was nothing else competing with it.
I’d been doing this more lately. Staying on the river after everyone else went home. Bishop had Breanna. Wells had Lincoln. Flint had Chloe. Cade had Annaleise. The outfitter closed at five and the guys scattered to their own lives and I found reasons to still be on the water at 6:30.
I didn’t think too hard about what that meant.
The Alderman cabin came into view on the second bend—weathered gray siding, the back deck hanging over the bank the way it always had. I’d run this section of river so many times I could do it eyes closed, every landmark exactly where it was supposed to be.
She was on the deck the first morning. Dark hair down her back and a mug in both hands. She wasn’t watching the river so much as listening to it.
I’d taken note and kept going. Not my business.
Second morning, same thing. Earlier, this time. The light hadn’t shifted yet and she was already out there.
I noticed that too and told myself I wasn’t.
The third afternoon, I came around the bend and she wasn’t on the deck.
She was on the bank.
One hand was trailing into the honeysuckle that climbed the low retaining wall below the cabin. She wasn’t doing anything in particular. Just there. Some people knew how to exist somewhere without making a production of it. I’d met maybe four people in my whole life who had that quality. She looked like she’d been born with it.
I pulled up without deciding to.
She heard the paddle and turned. Green eyes. That was the first thing I registered and the first thing I wished I hadn’t, because I was going to be thinking about that color later whether I wanted to or not.
“That stand’s been there longer than the cabin has,” I said.
It didn’t occur to me until the words were already out that I’d skipped straight past any kind of introduction. She didn’t seem to mind. Her chin lifted slightly—taking that in, saving it somewhere—and then she looked back at the honeysuckle like she was checking it against what I’d said.
“How much longer?”
“Ten, twelve years. It was here when they built the dock.” I nodded at the weathered posts where the bank met the water. “Grew in from the tree line. Nobody planted it.”
“It looks planted.”
“That’s just how it grows when it’s happy.”
She looked at me again. Something moved through those eyes that I didn’t try to read.
“Kyron Gibbs,” I said. “I run equipment and logistics for Wildwood River Co.”
“Suri Martin.” She pulled her hand out of the honeysuckle and tucked her hair back from her face. “I’m staying at the cabin.”
“I know.”
The corner of her mouth moved. Not quite a smile.
“You know.”
“I run this section most days. Noticed you on the deck the last couple mornings.” I kept my voice flat, matter-of-fact, the same way I’d tell someone the water level was running high. “Didn’t want to bother you.”
She watched me a beat longer. “And now?”
