But logic stopped mattering the second she laughed in the creek.
Salem shifts slightly, tilting her face up toward mine, eyes heavy with sleep. “Ozzy,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
Her lips part like she’s going to say something important. Then she just sighs and murmurs, “Thanks.”
My throat tightens. I smooth my hand over her arm. “Always.”
Salem’s eyes flutter closed again, the tension easing out of her body. And I sit there, holding her, watching the stupid movie play in the background, thinking about skateboards and roller skates and the fact that happiness is apparently something you can deliver in a box.
And that I’ll do it again.
Over and over.
As many times as she needs.
ELEVEN
SALEM
If you ever want to truly humble a confident man, put him in roller skates and give him a mission. Ozzy Oliver has taken down bad guys. Broken into compounds. Outrun armed men. Probably glared someone into confessing. But four wheels under each foot?
His villain origin story.
We’re in the back of Rainmaker where the pavement opens up into that little service strip—our makeshift training ground. Ozzy’s in black shorts and a t-shirt, wearing skates that look like they’ve been waiting their whole life to embarrass him. His mohawk is up, his posture is serious, and his face is set like he’s about to interrogate the ground.
I tighten my laces and try not to laugh. I fail. A snort escapes me.
Ozzy’s eyes cut to mine. “Don’t.”
I lift my hands innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it,” he accuses.
“I’m thinking a lot of things,” I admit.
His stare drops to my mouth—just for a second. Then he clears his throat and pushes off. His skates roll forward. So does his body. Too forward. His arms shoot out to the sides like he’s trying to catch an airplane.
“Bend your knees!” I call.
“I AM!” he shouts, bending nothing. He wobbles, panics, and clutches the air.
“Stop fighting it!” I laugh.
“I’m not fighting it,” he says, voice strained. “I’m negotiating.”
“Negotiate with your knees,” I tell him, skating closer. “Loosen up.”
Ozzy’s expression is pure betrayal. “This is not loosening up. This is—” He sways. His eyes widen. He grabs my shoulders.
I catch him automatically, our bodies bumping in a way that makes my breath hitch. Warmth meets warmth. His hands grip my arms. My fingers curl around his waist for stability. For one heartbeat, the lesson disappears. It’s just Ozzy. Close. Solid. Smelling like soap and clean cotton and something that makes my stomach flip.
His gaze locks on mine. Heat crackles. Then he says, dead serious, “If I die, tell Arrow I went out heroically.”
I blink. Then burst out laughing, the tension shattering.
Ozzy exhales like he’s been released from a spell. “Okay. Laugh at me. That’s fine.”