I freeze mid-bite. The ex. Right. That's what I mumbled before passing out. But it's not an ex; it's them, the faceless voices pulling strings. I set my fork down, mind racing. I can't tell him the truth. A sheriff? He'd investigate, alert authorities, and that could blow everything. They warned me: no cops, or Dad pays.
"It's complicated," I say, avoiding his eyes. Those piercing dark ones that see too much. Instead, I focus on his hands, wrapped around his coffee mug. Strong fingers, a faint scar across one knuckle. I wonder how it feels to have hands like that hold you, not just catch you, but reallyholdyou.
"Complicated how?" He leans forward, elbows on the table. His shirt stretches across his chest, hinting at the muscle beneath. God, he's attractive. Rugged, with that five-o'clock shadow framing his jaw, lips full enough to soften the hard lines. If circumstances were different, I'd lean in too, let this pull between us grow.
But they're not. "He... we ended badly. I left town to get away. That's all." Partial truth. The leaving part, at least.
Silas nods slowly, but doubt flickers in his expression. "And the flying lesson? With Rick?"
"Just something new. To clear my head." Another lie. The lessons were their idea, turning me into a reluctant pilot for whatever scheme they run. Smuggling across the border sounds simple, but I know it's not. Small planes evade radar easier, they said. Quick drops in remote spots. I don't even know the full route yet; that comes after I prove myself. Rick was supposed to sign off on my progress today.
He sips his coffee, studying me. "Rick's stable, by the way. Hospital called this morning. He'll pull through."
Relief floods me. "That's good. He seemed nice." Before the stroke turned everything to panic.
"Yeah. Known him for years." Silas sets his mug down. "Hannah, if there's more, you can tell me. Haven 7's built for people in tight spots. We protect our own."
Our own. The words warm me, but I can't be part of this. I push my plate away, half-eaten. "I appreciate it. More than you know. But I should get back to town. Pick up my things, figure out my next steps."
His brow furrows deeper. "Not alone. I'll drive you."
"No." Too sharp. I soften it. "I mean, you've done enough. Really."
He stands when I do, towering over me, close enough I catch his scent: soap and woodsmoke. It makes my pulse quicken. "Not happening. Whatever's got you spooked, rushing back won't fix it."
If only he knew. Rushing back is the only way to fix it. I need to contact them, explain the delay, beg for more time. Dad's next treatment is in a week; if the money dries up... I picture him in his hospital bed, frail under the fluorescent lights, smiling weakly when I call. "You're my strong girl," he always says. I have to stay strong for him.
But Silas blocks the door without meaning to, his presence filling the space. I look up, meeting his eyes. Concern there, yes, but something hotter too. Attraction? It mirrors what simmers in me. His lips part like he wants to say more, argue maybe. I imagine closing the distance, feeling that stubble against my cheek, his arms pulling me in.
No. I step back. "Silas, please. I need to handle this myself."
He hesitates, then nods reluctantly. "Fine. But take my number. Call if anything feels off."
I agree, punching it into my phone with fingers that tremble slightly. He walks me to his truck, insists on driving me downthe mountain. The ride is tense, scenery blurring past: twisting roads, glimpses of valleys below. He points out landmarks, trying to lighten the mood. "That's the old mine trail. Good hiking in the summer." His voice rumbles, comforting despite everything.
At the airstrip, my car waits where I left it. He pulls up beside it, engine idling. "Hannah..."
"I'll be fine." I force a smile, hopping out before he can protest more.
He watches me drive away, I see in the rearview. Worry etched on that handsome face.
Back at the motel, I lock the door, and sink onto the bed. My phone buzzes almost immediately. Unknown number. "Status?" the text reads.
I type back: "Delay. Instructor sick. Need more time."
The reply comes fast: "One week. Or payments stop."
My hands shake as I delete the thread. One week to finish training, make the first run. Smuggle whatever "goods" they load into the plane. Cross into Canada, drop it off, return. Simple, they say. But nothing about this feels simple.
I think of Silas again, his cabin, the breakfast he made. That life up there, with people who care without strings. But strings bind me here. For Dad.
I have to do this. No matter the cost.
The day drags. I pace the room, replaying the flight in my head. The controls shaking, Rick slumping, Silas's voice guiding me down. Calm, steady. Like him. I shower, letting hot water washaway the grime, but not the guilt. Dressing in fresh jeans and a sweater, I stare at my reflection: pale, eyes shadowed. Not the girl Dad raised, but the one circumstances forged.
Afternoon sun slants through the blinds when I venture out. Timber Creek is small, shops lining the main street, locals nodding hello. I grab groceries, basics to tide me over. At the cafe, I sip tea, watching people. Normal lives. Envy twists in me.
Back in the room, I research border crossings online, memorizing routes. Small airstrips in British Columbia, low-traffic areas. They haven't given details yet, but preparation can't hurt. My laptop hums, screen glowing. I find articles on smuggling: risks, penalties. Prison time if caught. But if I don't, Dad suffers.