And I definitely don't say no to a creek when it means feeling alive again.
EIGHT
OZZY
The creek hits me before I even see it.
We push through the last line of trees, and there it is: not some postcard-perfect babbling brook, but a real, living thing. No dramatic roar, no white-water theatrics, just this steady, endless rush over rounded stones that have been polished smooth by decades, maybe centuries, of the same water doing the same job. It doesn’t pause. It doesn’t care. It’s been carving this shallow channel long before I was born, long before Salem was dragged into hell, long before any of the monsters we’ve both met decided the world was theirs to break.
I stop at the edge of the bank, boots sinking slightly into the damp moss, and just listen.
The sound fills the space between my ribs. Persistent. Unapologetic. Like the creek knows exactly what it’s supposed to do and has zero interest in anyone else’s opinion. There’s no judgment here, no pity, no questions about why Salem’s shoulders are still tight or why my hands keep flexing like they’re waiting for the next fight. The water just moves. Forward. Overevery obstacle. Wearing stone down without ever raising its voice.
I like that.
More than I expected to.
It’s the kind of indifference that feels like mercy.
Salem steps up beside me, close enough that I catch the faint clean-laundry scent of her borrowed hoodie mixing with pine and wet earth. She’s staring at the creek like it might tell her something, like maybe if she listens hard enough it’ll explain how to feel normal again.
I don’t say anything yet. I just stand there with her, letting the rush of water drown out the leftover noise in my head—the echo of gunshots, the creak of that basement door, the way her voice cracked when she asked me to stay last night. The creek doesn’t give a damn about any of it, and right now that feels like the most honest thing in the world.
I glance at her profile. Her jaw is set, chin lifted just enough to say she’s daring the cold to try her. Her hands are shoved deep in her pockets, but I can see the faint tremor in her fingers. Not fear, exactly. More like everything inside her is still vibrating from the last few weeks and hasn’t figured out how to settle yet.
“You good?” I ask, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t compete with the water.
She nods once, quick. “Yeah. It’s… louder than I thought.”
“Same,” I admit. “Not angry. Just… doing its thing.”
She exhales through her nose, a small sound that’s almost a laugh. “I like that. That it doesn’t care.”
I feel the corner of my mouth tug. “Me too.”
For a minute we just stand there, two bruised-up people and a creek that’s older than both of us combined. The sun cuts through the branches overhead, splintering light across the surface so the water flashes silver and gold. A leaf spins past, caught in the current, disappearing around the bend without hesitation.
I don’t know what she’s thinking.
I don’t ask.
But I know this: whatever monsters are still living in her head, whatever ones are still pacing in mine, they don’t get to follow us here. Not right now.
We move toward a shallow basin bordered by rocks and a small sandy patch like nature tried to be hospitable. The water is clear enough to see pebbles at the bottom, dark and slick, with little flashes of silver where fish dart.
Salem stops at the edge and stares. Her face changes. Softer. “Okay,” she murmurs. “This is… pretty.”
“It is,” I say, watching her more than the water.
She glances at me. “Are you going to do that thing where you pretend you’re not looking at me?”
“I’m not pretending,” I say.
Her mouth twitches. “So you’re just openly staring.”
“I’m openly assessing,” I correct. My veins flood with want the longer I assess. Fuck, okay, I’m staring. Hard. She’s breathtaking. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met.
“Assessing what?”