Page 83 of Into Pitch

“You were right,” he murmurs.

“About what?”

“Patience.”

I hum and bump my shoulder into his softly.

“You’re going to be an alright fishermen, Alexander.” I whisper.

He simply snorts.

I don’t remember the last time I stood still without calculating outcomes.

The dock creaks beneath my boots as I shift my weight, the fishing rod warm in my hands now; familiar in a way it wasn’t an hour ago. The lake stretches out before us, mist lifting slowly as the morning wears on. The air even smells clean around us.

It is uncomplicated in a way I didn’t realize I had been missing out on.

Sadie stands a few steps away still, leaning casually against the railing and looking for the first time since I dragged her out here comfortable. The quiet the exact thing she needed, I think. I’m not entirely sure anymore, and that is also a new thing of being for me.

There’s still a faint smile tugging at her mouth, her expression one I can’t immediately categorize as she watches me.

I cast the line again, slower this time, watching to see if I can keep that pleased expression painted over her beautiful face. Her approval is immediate, but subtle. Her shoulders ease and her gaze warms as she looks between me and the bobber where it rests far out in the water.

I follow her gaze out to the bobber where it rocks gently with the movement beneath the surface. My mind trying to do what it always does and label things or jump to the next prediction, but I force it down and remain just inside this moment. Just inside of this connection and the bonding it allows.

And I can’t say that I’m not enjoying myself.

Enjoyment for me in the past has always been this precise thing. One that was outcome-driven and often created structure within pleasure itself. I was okay with the rules I had crafted to keep that joy inside neat little boxes, especially when that enjoyment often meant slaughter within Pitch.

This act is… aimless and gentle. Pointless really, in the most alarming way.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” Sadie murmurs.

“How can you tell?”

“You get this look,” she replies and waggles her finger toward my face. “Like you’re working out this ridiculously complex problem only you can see.”

I frown at that, peeking toward her. “Everything is a problem if you understand it well enough.”

“Does it get exhausting being you?” She means it as a tease, but she’s not far from the truth.

It does.

I don’t reply with that of course, instead I just turn back to the water and wait.

In this comfortable silence we’ve created, a memory surfaces unbidden.

My father’s hands were never this steady. No, they were heavy and far too brutal. Used for correction rather than guidance. I learned early—much like Sadie—that stillness meant survival and that questions invited pain. That mistakes were not tolerated, but punished.

He wasn’t a man who possessed the patience to teach much of anything. There was no afternoons where he demanded nothing of me but my presence. It was always a push to be more, to be better. To be this thing that I became, this very thing that would be the downfall of all his cruelty.

I swallow hard, surprised by the tightness that evades my throat.

“You didn’t get to do things like this growing up, did you?” Sadie murmurs, as if she’s already found some express route right into my brain and thoughts. It would be eerie if I didn’t know it was written all over my face.

“No, I didn’t.” I answer after a moment.

She nods, and leans forward to rest her forearms across the deck railing. Her long blonde hair slipping forward over her shoulder in the ponytail she had wrangled it into just this morning before the hike here.