For a moment, I’m taken aback by the way the light catches in her hair, giving it an almost ethereal glow.
“You didn’t have to run away, you know. They were just having fun.”
I shrug, trying to sound indifferent. “They don’t need me there.”
“Sure they do.” She steps beside me, watching the darkness of the woods. “You act like you’re a ghost among them, but they’re glad you’re here. Even if you can’t see it.”
I keep my gaze fixed on the treeline, avoiding her penetrating stare. “I’m better off out here.”
“Is that how you really feel?” she shifts nearer, her shoulder brushing against mine, her voice low, just above a whisper. “Or is that what you tell yourself?”
I can’t answer her.
The weight of the silence stretches between us like a taut wire, pulsing with untold truths.
The warmth from her shoulder sparks something primal inside me, jolting awake parts of myself I'd buried years ago.
The familiar scent of her—pine needles and gunpowder—threatens to crack my carefully constructed walls.
Every instinct screams to pull away, to maintain the distance that keeps us both safe.
I force myself to remain focused on the mission.
"You know the deal," I step away from her contact, keeping my voice even and low. "You stay, you talk."
She exhales, running her fingers through her hair, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through her composed expression.
"Okay. You want the truth? Which part? The one that'll piss you off or the one that'll make you hate me?"
“Start somewhere,” I say carefully, feeling that familiar pulse of anxiety ripple beneath my skin.
"I'm a journalist," she admits, and it sounds like a confession. “Or I was, before everything collapsed.”
That hits me harder than expected—her ambition, her drive to dig deeper, a reflection of my own past decisions. “What happened?”
“I dug too deep into a story,” she explains. “Connected to the wrong people. What started as a lead turned into a leak. Then a target on my back.”
My muscles tense.
I sense the danger woven through her words, the threat she carries, but she stops short of naming names, leaving me with just the outline of her trauma.
“You’re not telling me everything,” I point out, my voice a low rumble.
I step closer, my breath ghosting across her face. Her pulse jumps at her throat. A tiny tell, but I catch it. Her eyes darken, pupils dilating as she tilts her chin up in defiance. The scent of her—coffee and rain and something uniquelyher—hits me like a physical force.
My own heart betrays me, hammering against my ribs. I lock my muscles to stop from swaying closer, from closing that final dangerous inch between us.
Distance. Control. Focus.
But the electricity crackling in that narrow space makes focusing damn near impossible.
I grip her arms as she tries to shove me back, the heat of her skin burning through the fabric between us.
This started as a warning, a show of force.
Now her nearness clouds my judgment, makes me forget why I need to keep my distance.
Her warmth seeps into my hands, and I can't make myself let go.
