My chest aches, and I hold her gaze. “Salem. That’s not what I meant.”
She swallows. “It sounded like it.”
I exhale slowly. “Okay.” I nod once, letting her set the boundary. “No board. Not unless you want it. Not unless you ask.”
Her shoulders loosen slightly. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I shift the topic carefully. “What else? Besides the skatepark.”
Salem laughs again, smaller this time. “I don’t really… do much. Money’s always tight. Time’s always tight. If I’m not working, I’m sleeping. If I’m not sleeping, I’m worrying.”
My stomach twists. Because that isn’t living. That’s just… surviving in a different kind of cage. And I hate cages.
I look out at the creek, then back at her. “Okay,” I say.
Salem blinks. “Okay what?”
“I’m making a list,” I tell her.
Her eyes narrow. “A list?”
“Yeah,” I say, like it’s obvious. “Things we can do while we’re here. Lowkey. Safe. But… real.”
Salem stares at me like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to want that. “We’re supposed to be hiding,” she says.
“We are,” I agree. “But hiding doesn’t have to mean disappearing. It can mean… living quietly. Breathing. Relearning what normal is.”
She studies me. Then she says, wary but curious, “What’s on the list?”
I grin, slow and deliberate. “First item: teach you how to make coffee that doesn’t taste like regret.”
Salem snorts. “That’s not fun.”
“It’s necessary.”
She shakes her head, amusement in her eyes now. “Okay. What else?”
“Second,” I say, “creek again. But with snacks.”
Salem’s smile grows. “Okay.”
“Third,” I add, “find a skate spot nearby. Something small. Something safe.”
Her lips part slightly. She tries to hide how much she wants that. And she fails miserably. I keep going, because I’m already committed.
“Fourth: movie night. Fifth: I teach you how to throw a punch that makes a grown man reconsider his life choices.”
Salem lifts a brow. “Pretty sure I already know.”
“Then you teach me,” I say without thinking.
Her eyes flash. “I might.”
The air between us warms, not from the sun. From something else. Something hungry. Something dangerous.
I stand and offer my hand. Salem looks at it like it’s a trick. Then she takes it. Her fingers are cool from the water, but her grip is firm. I pull her up gently, and she steps close enough that I can smell her—clean soap, creek water, and the faint lingering sweetness of oatmeal.
My body reacts.