The realization unsettled me more than anything else tonight. More than the sirens. More than the silence that followed. The unwanted, undeniable pull to close the distance we’d always kept between us—to step forward instead of pulling away.
His fingers relaxed around my wrist. Not quite letting go,but loosening enough to give me the choice.
“Fine,” I muttered. “Lead the way.”
He didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk. That alone told me more than I wanted to know.
The parking lot stretched out ahead of us, black and wide and empty. Our footsteps were the only sound—the flat scuff of his boots, the quicker tap of my shoes trying to keep pace without looking like I was hurrying.
I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me scared.
But I wasn’t stupid either.
My gaze swept the darkness as we moved, casual but constant. Every shadow seemed heavier than it should have. Every shape at the edge of my vision seemed like it might shift if I looked away too long. A dumpster. A light pole. The low concrete wall at the edge of the lot. All the things I’d walked past a thousand times without thinking. All of them were weird now in ways I had no way to explain.
The silence was the worst part. Not true silence—the sirens were still out there, coming closer.
I swallowed and curled my fingers tighter around the strap of my bag.
Callan walked slightly ahead of me, his shoulders squared, his head turning in slow, methodical sweeps. Left. Right. Center. Left again. There was nothing casual about it. His posture was rigid, coiled, his weight balanced in a way I’d never noticed before—or possibly never had reason to notice. Every few steps, one arm drifted back toward me, his fingers brushing my sleeve as if he were checking. Confirming that I was still there. Still close.
He didn’tsay anything.
Neither did I.
His truck was just ahead—possibly twenty feet—when the night turned darker.
Three shots. Rapid. Close.
Crack-crack-crack.
The sound hit my chest like a physical blow, shooting through my chest before my ears even registered what it was. It was so close I swore I felt the air move.
A sound came out of me I didn’t recognize, somewhere between a gasp and a cry that I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried. My body moved before my brain caught up. My fingers found his jacket and locked into the fabric, fistfuls of it, gripping so hard my knuckles ached instantly.
Callan didn’t freeze. Didn’t flinch.
In one motion—fast, fluid, no hesitation—he lunged forward, his hand finding my shoulder and driving me back against the cold metal of his truck. My back hit the door panel, and the impact knocked the air out of me.
“Get down.” His mouth was at my ear, barely a whisper, barely even a breath.
* * *
His body was already between me and the open lot, pressed against mine, blocking everything. One arm braced against the truck beside my head. The other gripped my shoulder, pinning me in place, his heartbeat faint against my collarbone. Fast. Controlled. But fast.
I didn’t move. My heart was beating so hard.
“What—”
“Shhh.”
Not a word. Just air. Just the shape of it against my skin.
I fell still. Completely still. I stopped breathing. I stopped thinking. I pressed myself flat against the truck and made myself as small as I’d ever been, and I listened.
Silence.
Then—not silence, but worse. A sound I didn’t immediately place. Wet. Shuffling.