Chapter 7
Shepard
It starts raining the second I turn off Main.
Classic Driftwood Cove.
Fall here is unpredictable—sunshine one minute, cold mist the next. The kind of weather that makes the air smell like salt and woodsmoke. Makes you wish you’d brought a jacket. Makes everything feel a little more cinematic than it is.
The wipers thump against the windshield as I drive back from the library. I’ve spent the last three hours with Marjorie in the archives, sorting through donation boxes full of water-damaged poetry chapbooks and old town council records scrawled on yellowing paper.
She told me stories about the town’s founding families between sips of chamomile and fussing with her sweater cuffs. I didn’t mind it. It was a good afternoon.
Which is why I almost miss it.
A truck, off to the side of Harbor Ridge Road.
Not just any truck. Her truck.
Rust-orange. Dented near the tailgate. Tennessee plates.
I hit the brakes before my brain even catches up. Pull over. Hazard lights on. Adrenaline spikes hard and fast. My boots are soaked within seconds as I step out into the rain.
“Sadie?” I call out, jogging toward the truck.
No answer.
Shit.
My gut drops. I get closer and see her slumped forward, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. There’s steam fogging the windows. I knock lightly, then pull the door open.
She’s muttering to herself, breathing shallow. Her hair’s a mess, damp strands stuck to her cheek. There’s blood on her temple—just a thin line, but enough to make my stomach twist.
“Sadie,” I say gently. “Can you hear me?”
She lifts her eyes slowly. Blinks at me. “Shepard?”
Thank fuck.
I exhale. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Hey, don’t move, okay? You might have a concussion. I’m going to call an ambulance—”
“No.” Her voice is firm but raspy, the kind that’s fighting not to break.
“You were in an accident.”
“I can’t go to the hospital,” she says quickly. “If the mayor finds out, he might cancel the mural contract. I need this job. Please. I can’t lose this.”
Goddammit.
I look at her again. She’s pale. A little shaky. But alert.
Barely.
“You’re bleeding,” I point out.
“I’ve had worse,” she says, trying to sit straighter. Her hand trembles.
I swear under my breath. “Alright. Okay. No hospital. But I’m getting you out of here, and someone’s going to look at you. I know a guy.”
She nods faintly.
I take a step back and offer my arms. “Can I help you out?”
“Yeah,” she whispers.
Her body’s light but stiff in my hold as I help her down from the truck. She winces as her boots hit the mud, and I hold her steady.
She starts to lean into the passenger seat of my car and I hesitate. I can’t do this halfway. I need to know she’s alright.
“Don’t fall asleep,” I say, pointing at her. “Please. I mean it.”
“Okay,” she whispers again, curling into the seat.
“Good. Just... try to stay with me.”
I run back through the rain and grab her groceries and her sketchbooks—water-stained but intact—from the passenger side of her truck. When I return, she’s leaning back with her eyes half-lidded, a smear of blood drying on her brow.
I clear my throat. “Hey. You still with me?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes open, land on me, and for a second—just a second—there’s something raw and unguarded between us. I can see the shimmer of tears she’s trying to blink back, the way her breath catches in her throat.
She’s so fucking pretty.
“The rain’s picking up,” I say as I put the bags in the back and close her door. “But I’ll drive slow.”
I ease onto the road, glancing at her every few seconds to make sure she’s upright.
“What happened?” I ask as we pass the first row of beach houses.
She exhales slowly. “There was a squirrel.”
I blink. “A squirrel?”
“Ran across the road. I swerved. Dumb.”
I shake my head. “Not dumb. Just... unfortunate.”
Her voice is soft. Distant. “My head hurts.”
I flick my headlights to high-beam. “I figured. You’ve probably got a mild concussion. I’ll have Boone check you out when we get in. He won’t tell Jake, I promise.”
She nods weakly.
“You said you had worse. Back in Memphis?”
She doesn’t answer. And I don’t push.
Instead, I focus on the road, the rhythmic swish of the wipers, the sound of the rain growing louder against the roof. I catch my own reflection in the rearview—glasses slightly fogged, jaw tight.
What the hell are you doing, Shepard?
This is not your lane. She’s new. Just moved here. You don’t even know her. You don’t know anything about her except the fact that she smells like sugar and sweetgrass, and she has stormy eyes that look like they’ve seen hell.
Still. I can’t walk away.
Not from this.
By the time I pull into the lot behind the apartment complex, the storm’s fully broken open. I kill the engine and unbuckle.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her as I come around and open her door. “Can you walk?”
“Yeah,” she says, voice thin.
I wrap an arm around her waist anyway, guiding her up the stairwell to my unit on the second floor. She’s shivering, so I move fast.
Inside, the apartment smells like cedar and clean laundry. I keep it minimal—books stacked neatly in the corner, a guitar I don’t play anymore against the wall.
She sways a little once I get her to the couch.
“You should lie down.”
She blinks. “No sleep. Right?”
“Right.”
I grab a towel from the linen closet and press it gently to her temple. The cut’s shallow, but still bleeding a little. “Boone should be off shift by now. I’ll text him.”
She doesn’t say anything.
I move around the kitchen, finding the scones I packed from her truck and setting them on the table. I open the fridge, pull out two cans of ginger ale, and bring one to her.
“Here. Sugar might help.”
She takes it. Her fingers brush mine. I don’t flinch, but something in me pulls tight, like a chord strummed too hard.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
I nod. Then I sit. Not too close. Just enough.
She glances at the wall of books. “You read all those?”
“Most of them,” I say. “Some twice.”
“Favorite?”
“Depends on the day.”
There’s a silence between us that isn’t uncomfortable. Just... heavy.
Eventually, she sets the can down and leans her head back. Her skin is pale, her lips parted slightly as if she’s still trying to catch her breath.
I want to ask what happened. What she was running from. What’s got her so damn scared.
But I don’t.
I just sit there, watching her fight sleep, watching the storm gather in her eyes.
And thinking that, for the first time in a long while, I want to know.
Really know.
Her.
Even if it’s complicated.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it’s stupid.
What the hell are you doing, Shepard?
I don’t know. But this feels like the beginning of something.
And I’m not sure I can stop it.
I’m still running on the tailspin of adrenaline from the moment I found Sadie’s truck crushed in a ditch. Jesus, my hands haven’t stopped shaking.
The second the lock clicks open on Gus’s crate—not a crate, not really, just the gate I sometimes use to stop him from knocking over my bookshelves—he bolts out like his tail’s on fire.
“You broke out again this morning,” I remind him, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Snapped the damn latch. You owe me fifty bucks, you fluffy demon.”
He ignores me completely, careening around the room before he leaps straight onto the couch where Sadie’s curled up. Gus nudges at her chest until she opens her eyes and lets out a soft, dry laugh.
“Hey, buddy,” she whispers, reaching up to scratch behind his ears. Her voice is hoarse.
I step closer. “You okay?”
She blinks slowly. “Headache. Bad one.”
I nod. “I’ve got something for that. But I want to be sure you’re stable before I dose you.”
She winces when she shifts to sit up. Gus immediately noses her arm again, whining softly. Loyal-ass dog.
“What else can I do?” I ask.
She looks up at me. Eyes glassy. Expression guarded. “Bathroom?”
“Yeah, of course.” I walk over, steadying her with a hand under her elbow. “Here. It’s through my room.”
Her body’s small against mine. Still tense. Still wired.
I take the few seconds she’s in the bathroom to grab what I need—sweatpants, another long-sleeved shirt, socks, hell, even a hair tie from the dish by the sink. Anything that might make her feel safe.
When she comes out, she’s pale and visibly swaying.
“I thought we should get you into something warmer.”
“That would be nice,” she says.
I point to my clothes, knowing they will be a little too big on her but what other choice do I have?
“I—” she starts, then stops, bracing against the doorframe. “Could you… help?”
“Yeah,” I say gently. “Let’s sit.”
I walk her to the bed. Help her sit. She’s trying to unlace her boots but her fingers aren’t cooperating.
“Let me,” I say. She nods.
Fuck, she’s freezing.
I kneel, tug off the soaked boots. Her socks are damp, her calves mottled from the cold. She sits there, half-slumped, watching me with those eyes that never seem to stop hiding things.
She’s wearing a black tank top under the dress. Soft cotton, a little worn. I can see the straps of her bra. Her skin is freckled down her shoulders and collarbones, and she has too many bruises for someone who just slipped into a ditch.
“Arms up?” I say softly.
She obeys, and I help slide her arms through the sleeves. My sweatshirt nearly swallows her whole. The sweatpants drag across the carpet as I help her into them.
“You good?” I ask as I help her up.
“I smell like you,” she murmurs.
That shouldn’t affect me the way it does. But it kicks straight into my chest. Don’t be an idiot.
I help her stand and walk back to my sitting room. She curls up on the couch again. Gus puts his head on her lap like he’s been waiting his entire life for her to come home.
“I’ll get you some Gatorade,” I say, needing the excuse to move.
When I come back with the bottle, she’s rubbing her eyes.
“I like your house,” she says as I hand it to her.
“Thanks.”
She uncaps it. Sips. Then asks, “Do you wear glasses for aesthetics?”
I blink. “No. What?”
“Your glasses. You have good bone structure. I wondered if they were fake.”
I almost laugh. “No. They’re real. I need them to read.”
She nods solemnly, like that’s the most important thing she’s learned today. Definitely concussed.
I hear my phone buzzing and grab it. Boone.
I pick up. “Hey—”
“What the fuck happened?”
“She wrecked. Concussed. I brought her here. Didn’t want to force her into the ER.”
Boone curses. “I’ll be there in ten. Tell her to stay awake.”
“Working on it.”
He hangs up.
I look at her again. She’s leaning back on the armrest, eyes fluttering.
“Hey,” I say softly, sitting beside her. “Don’t fall asleep, alright?”
“I’m not,” she lies. “I’m just resting my eyes.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“Mm,” she says. Then, “The rain’s louder here.”
I nod. “Yeah. Metal fence. Amplifies it.”
“It’s kind of nice.”
We fall into silence again. Gus sighs and curls tighter into her side.
I study her. Her lashes are long. There’s a small scar along her jawline I hadn’t noticed before. A healed split, probably old. She shifts a little and presses a hand to her temple.
“Sadie,” I say, “how bad’s the headache?”
“Seven out of ten.”
“Okay. Can I give you something?”
She hesitates, then nods.
I get the ibuprofen and pass her the pills and a fresh glass of water. She takes them without protest.
A minute later, she says, “Thanks, Shepard.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” She’s looking at me differently now. Less guarded. More raw.
“Gus likes you,” I say.
She smiles. “Yeah. I noticed.”
And I find myself saying, “He doesn’t like most people.”
“Me either.”
That makes me laugh. A real, small laugh that catches me off guard.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say, quieter now.
“I might not be if you hadn’t stopped.”
“You’d have figured it out.”
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t… I don’t always figure things out.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I just sit with her. Quiet. Still. Letting the storm settle around us both.
And I try not to think about how good it feels—just being here. With her.