Chapter 7 Salem
SEVEN
SALEM
I wake up to the smell of clean sheets, cedar, and him.
Ozzy.
He's not in the bed anymore, thank God, because if I opened my eyes and found my arms still wrapped around the man I met less than twenty-four hours ago, I might actually burst into flames.
But his warmth is everywhere—on the pillow, on my skin, in the ghost of his arm around my waist when the nightmares tried to claw me back into that dark place.
My heart stutters just remembering how I reached for him in the dark like my body already decided he was safe.
I stare at the ceiling, blinking slowly. Last night really happened. I asked him to stay. I admitted I was scared. Worst of all, I clung to him like some fragile thing that might shatter without his heartbeat against my ear.
I am not fragile.
I am Salem Bloom. I have survived things that would break most people. I have turned a clipboard into a weapon. I have eaten an egg sandwich like it was the last sacred thing on earth. I have looked men with guns in the eye and thought, No, you're the one who should be afraid.
And yet the second the nightmare grabbed me by the throat, my hands found Ozzy like they knew exactly where safety lived. That's what burns. Not the fear. The need.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my face with both hands, then swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare feet touch cool wood, and a small, stupid burst of satisfaction hits me: I’m safe.
The house is quiet in that heavy, living way—like Rainmaker is holding its breath right along with me. From down the hall, water runs. The shower’s running. Ozzy. My stomach does an obnoxious flip.
I stand and pad toward the kitchen, mostly to put physical distance between me and the bed where I did something mortifying like ask for comfort.
Morning light spills through big windows, soft and golden, painting the trees and rolling hills outside. The kitchen is stocked like someone prepared for the apocalypse and then invited friends over: cabinets bursting, pantry full, fridge humming with quiet abundance.
I open the fridge door. And freeze. Eggs.
Real ones, not the powdered kind. Cartons of berries.
Yogurt in glass jars. Sealed chicken breasts.
Bottled water standing in neat rows like soldiers.
Fresh vegetables still crisp. A loaf of bread that smells faintly of yeast. Almond butter.
Oat milk. Regular milk. Orange juice. I almost want to cry at the sight. Almost.
My throat closes. For weeks I counted crackers, rationed sips of water, measured exactly how much hunger I could hide before someone noticed and decided to punish me for it.
Now I'm staring at choices like a normal person.
I shut the door too fast and press my forehead to the cool stainless steel.
Breathe. Breakfast. I can do breakfast. Something healthy.
Something that says I'm rebuilding, not falling apart.
I pull out a bowl, oats, honey, chia seeds, a banana, expensive-looking peanut butter. I'm measuring oatmeal like I'm on a cooking show called Trauma But Make It Nutritious when the water cuts off.
My heart kicks hard. I stare at the dry oats in the bowl.
I am not waiting for him. I am not listening for his footsteps.
I’m a grown woman making breakfast. I will not picture Ozzy naked right now.
Nope. I won’t. Ugh, too late. The image bursts behind my eyelids, and I try to push the thought away.
The hallway door opens, and I freeze. Footsteps travel closer as my heart pounds through my ears. Then Ozzy steps into the kitchen. In nothing but a towel.
Oh. My. God.
Water beads on his chest, trails down the ridges of his stomach like gravity is personally invested.
His skin is tan and his shoulders are broad enough to block out the world.
His arms are corded and unfair. And his hair—his mohawk is down, damp strands falling forward, darker, softer, turning him from sharp-edged rescuer into something even more dangerous: a rockstar who might also ruin your enemies and then kiss you after.
I forget how to breathe. He stops too, his dark eyes widening. For one long, electric second we just stare at each other like we've been caught red-handed. I'm holding a measuring cup of oats. He's holding the knot of the towel at his hip like it's on the verge of mutiny.
His gaze drags over me—slow, hot, shameless—and it's eight in the morning and I'm still in yesterday's borrowed T-shirt and leggings and trauma, but the way he looks at me says none of that matters.
My face burns white hot. His jaw flexes like he's biting back words.
I open my mouth. My brain supplies exactly one syllable. "Oh." Brilliant.
Ozzy's lips part. He looks like he might actually speak.
Then his eyes drop to my hands, to the bowl, to the spoon.
To breakfast. Something shifts in his face—softens, reins in.
He clears his throat and takes one deliberate step back, like he's forcing distance between us.
"Morning," he says, voice gravel-rough from sleep.
"Morning," I manage, trying and failing not to catalog every inch of skin still glistening.
He holds my gaze one heartbeat longer. Then he turns and practically bolts down the hallway. Like a man running from temptation. Or from the fear he'll do something stupid.
I stand frozen, spoon hovering, pulse hammering like I sprinted a mile.
"Okay," I mutter to the empty kitchen. "Cool.
Totally normal." My traitor brain tries to imagine him toweling off, pulling on clothes.
My body votes enthusiastically for continuing the spiral.
I smack the spoon against the bowl. "Stop. "
A few minutes later he comes back. Fully dressed: black T-shirt stretched across his chest, dark joggers, boots.
Mohawk restored, sharp and confident again, like the damp, vulnerable version never existed.
He leans a hip against the counter like he belongs in my mornings. He eyes the bowl. "You cooking?"
"Trying," I say. "I'm not sure I remember how to be a person."
His gaze lifts to my face, gentler now. "You're doing good."
I exhale. "Oatmeal. Fruit. Like someone who does yoga and has their life together."
His mouth twitches. "You do yoga?"
"No."
"Then why oatmeal?"
I lift my chin. "Because I'm malnourished and I'm trying to add in calories and nutrition."
Ozzy's smile flashes, quick and real. "That’s smart, Salem."
"Thank you," I mutter. Before I can overthink it, I set out two bowls. Slice banana, scatter berries, drizzle honey, spoon peanut butter on top.
I glance at him. "You want peanut butter?"
He pauses, eyes glinting. "Is that a euphemism?"
I choke on a laugh. "No!"
His grin turns wicked. "Then yes. I want peanut butter."
I flick a berry at him. It bounces off his chest and hits the floor.
He laughs and bends to pick it up. When he straightens, he's watching me again. Like he sees something he wants to keep.
I pretend not to notice.
We eat side by side at the counter in easy quiet. It's surreal how normal it feels to share breakfast with the man who carried me out of hell less than twelve hours ago. Surreal, and… good.
When I finish, I wash my bowl, and dry my hands. Then I turn to him. The question I've been carrying since we left HQ finally spills out. "What are we going to do?" My voice is careful. "Like… today. Here. What's the plan?"
Ozzy leans his forearms on the counter, gaze steady on mine. "Plan is you recover. You eat. You sleep. You breathe."
"That's not a plan," I say, because stillness feels like surrender.
His eyes narrow just a fraction. "It is."
I huff. "What if I go insane?"
He tilts his head. "You bored already?"
"No," I say too fast. "I'm just…" Restless. Wired. Terrified the second I stop moving, the memories will catch me.
Ozzy watches me like he hears every word I don't say. Then he offers, "We can do anything we want. Within reason."
I blink. "Anything?"
"Anything." He nods. "We're lowkey, not locked down. Just don't make waves."
I glance toward the window, toward the woods and the distant shimmer of water. "I saw a creek on the drive up," I say, surprised by how badly I want it. "Is it close?"
His gaze follows mine. "Yeah. Ten-minute walk."
"Could we…" I hesitate, hating how small I sound. "Could we go?"
Ozzy straightens instantly. "Yeah. We can go."
My chest loosens. "Swimming?" I ask.
"It's cold," he warns.
"I'm tougher than cold," I say, chin up.
His mouth curves. "I'm not arguing toughness with you. I watched you weaponize stationery."
"Good." I smirk. "Then let's go."
He pushes off the counter. "Get dressed. Shoes. Jacket. And—" His eyes meet mine, serious now. "If you feel weird out there, we come back. No pressure."
I swallow hard, and nod once. "Okay," I whisper.
He holds my gaze, and then heads for the door.
I watch him go, my brain still short-circuiting between safe and wanting and I can't believe this is my life now.
Then I grab my jacket. Because for the first time in weeks, I'm not just surviving.
I'm choosing. And if Ozzy thinks he can keep me tucked away in a safehouse without me at least trying to take back my body, my joy, maybe even my future— he's about to learn something important.
I don't fold.
I don't stay broken.
And I definitely don't say no to a creek when it means feeling alive again.