I look at Chase. “I feel like this is a test.”
He nods solemnly. “You have to pass.”
“I’ll take the steak,” I tell her.
“And pie,” Chase adds. “For both of us.”
Greta winks. “Good man.”
When she walks away, I laugh softly. “You’re popular.”
“Greta fed half this town. That makes her the real power broker.”
We talk while we wait for food. Little things. What it was like growing up with Gavin. Where he’s from. He doesn’t offer much about himself, but he listens in a way that makes me feel… heard.
When the food comes, I realize I’m starving.
“This is the first real meal I’ve had in days,” I admit.
He watches me for a second, then says quietly, “You don’t have to run anymore, Fiona.” The words settle between us like a promise.
I meet his gaze. “I’m starting to think that.”
For the first time since I left my apartment with a bag and a bad feeling in my gut, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something to go wrong.
I feel… okay.
And that’s dangerous.
Because I like Chase. More than I should. More than is smart. But sitting in a small-town diner, eating pie with a man who makes me feel safe? It feels like the beginning of something I’m not ready to walk away from. And for once…
I don’t want to.
EIGHT
CHASE
Town puts me on edge. It always has. Too many blind corners. Too many reflections in windows. Too many places for someone to disappear and reappear with bad intentions. Out here, in the open, I can see threats coming. In Timber Creek, threats blend in with flannel and friendly smiles.
Which means my attention stays on a swivel. But it keeps drifting back to her anyway.
Fiona walks a step ahead of me on the sidewalk, shoes clicking against the brick like she’s announcing her presence to the whole world. She tucks her hair behind her ear, then lets it fall again, then does it again like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. It’s nervous energy. Or maybe it’s just a habit.
Either way, I notice.
I notice the way she scans storefront windows, checking her reflection and what’s behind her. The way she pauses before stepping into a shop, like she’s bracing herself. And I notice the way she relaxes just a fraction when she realizes I’m right there.
“Do you always walk like you’re clearing a room?” she asks, glancing back at me with a half-smile.
“Habit.”
“From the war,” she says, not asking.
“From life,” I answer, which is the closest I get to admitting anything real.
She studies me for a second, then nods like she understands more than she’s letting on.
We hit the drugstore first. She grabs a basket and starts tossing things in—toothbrush, face wash, deodorant, shampoo, conditioner. Normal stuff. Ordinary stuff. The kind of stuff people buy when their life isn’t on fire.