Chapter 8 Ozzy
EIGHT
OZZY
The creek hits me before I even see it.
We push through the last line of trees, and there it is: not some postcard-perfect babbling brook, but a real, living thing.
No dramatic roar, no white-water theatrics, just this steady, endless rush over rounded stones that have been polished smooth by decades, maybe centuries, of the same water doing the same job.
It doesn’t pause. It doesn’t care. It’s been carving this shallow channel long before I was born, long before Salem was dragged into hell, long before any of the monsters we’ve both met decided the world was theirs to break.
I stop at the edge of the bank, boots sinking slightly into the damp moss, and just listen.
The sound fills the space between my ribs.
Persistent. Unapologetic. Like the creek knows exactly what it’s supposed to do and has zero interest in anyone else’s opinion.
There’s no judgment here, no pity, no questions about why Salem’s shoulders are still tight or why my hands keep flexing like they’re waiting for the next fight.
The water just moves. Forward. Over every obstacle.
Wearing stone down without ever raising its voice.
I like that.
More than I expected to.
It’s the kind of indifference that feels like mercy.
Salem steps up beside me, close enough that I catch the faint clean-laundry scent of her borrowed hoodie mixing with pine and wet earth. She’s staring at the creek like it might tell her something, like maybe if she listens hard enough it’ll explain how to feel normal again.
I don’t say anything yet. I just stand there with her, letting the rush of water drown out the leftover noise in my head—the echo of gunshots, the creak of that basement door, the way her voice cracked when she asked me to stay last night.
The creek doesn’t give a damn about any of it, and right now that feels like the most honest thing in the world.
I glance at her profile. Her jaw is set, chin lifted just enough to say she’s daring the cold to try her.
Her hands are shoved deep in her pockets, but I can see the faint tremor in her fingers.
Not fear, exactly. More like everything inside her is still vibrating from the last few weeks and hasn’t figured out how to settle yet.
“You good?” I ask, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t compete with the water.
She nods once, quick. “Yeah. It’s… louder than I thought.”
“Same,” I admit. “Not angry. Just… doing its thing.”
She exhales through her nose, a small sound that’s almost a laugh. “I like that. That it doesn’t care.”
I feel the corner of my mouth tug. “Me too.”
For a minute we just stand there, two bruised-up people and a creek that’s older than both of us combined.
The sun cuts through the branches overhead, splintering light across the surface so the water flashes silver and gold.
A leaf spins past, caught in the current, disappearing around the bend without hesitation.
I don’t know what she’s thinking.
I don’t ask.
But I know this: whatever monsters are still living in her head, whatever ones are still pacing in mine, they don’t get to follow us here. Not right now.
We move toward a shallow basin bordered by rocks and a small sandy patch like nature tried to be hospitable. The water is clear enough to see pebbles at the bottom, dark and slick, with little flashes of silver where fish dart.
Salem stops at the edge and stares. Her face changes. Softer. “Okay,” she murmurs. “This is… pretty.”
“It is,” I say, watching her more than the water.
She glances at me. “Are you going to do that thing where you pretend you’re not looking at me?”
“I’m not pretending,” I say.
Her mouth twitches. “So you’re just openly staring.”
“I’m openly assessing,” I correct. My veins flood with want the longer I assess. Fuck, okay, I’m staring. Hard. She’s breathtaking. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met.
“Assessing what?”
I shrug. “All of you.”
She lets out an audible breath. “Oh,” she pauses, then, “I’m afraid you’ll see something you won’t like.”
I don’t tell her that she’s crazy. Instead, I keep it safe, saying, “I’m wondering if you’ll jump in and instantly regret it.”
She huffs. “I won’t regret it.”
“It’s cold.”
“I’m tougher than cold,” she repeats, like it’s her mantra now.
I laugh under my breath. “Okay, clipboard warrior.”
She shoots me a look that’s supposed to be annoyed, but it’s got heat in it too.
We set our stuff on a rock. She hesitates—just a flicker—then starts tugging off her shoes, socks, and hoodie.
Underneath, she’s wearing a simple black tank and leggings from Juno’s bag.
Nothing fancy. Nothing meant to be seen.
But my brain immediately files it under dangerous.
Not because she’s half-dressed. Because she looks like she’s stepping back into herself.
She steps to the edge and dips a toe in the water. Her whole face scrunches. “Oh my God.”
I smirk. “Tougher than cold.”
“Shut up,” she snaps, but she’s laughing when she says it. She wades in anyway, shoulders tensing as the water climbs her legs. The creek is mountain-fed. It’s the kind of cold that bites first and then turns numb. She gasps. “Okay. That’s… evil.”
I strip off my boots and shirt, keeping my eyes deliberately on the waterline and not on the way she’s looking at my body. Every hour I’ve spent grueling over the gym is paying off. I want her eyes on me.
I like it. The water looks inviting, but I’m sure it isn’t. I step in, and the cold hits my skin like a shock. I suck in a breath and keep my face neutral.
Salem notices, narrowing her eyes. “You just flinched.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” she insists, delight sharpening her expression. “You’re not tougher than cold.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
She grins. “Coward.”
I move toward her, water swirling around my thighs, and she backs up instinctively—playful, but wary, like she still can’t fully trust play. I stop a few feet away. “If I’m a coward, what does that make you?”
She lifts her chin. “Brave.”
I hum. “Correct.”
Her expression shifts at that like she’s surprised, then something softer that she tries to hide.
I let it go. We wade deeper until the water hits our waists. The current presses against us, tugging at Salem’s tied-back hair, pulling loose strands like it wants to steal them.
She shivers. Then she exhales and—without warning—she laughs. A real laugh. Full and sudden and bright. It cracks something open in my chest. Because it’s not forced. And it makes me want to burn down the world for ever taking it from her.
She splashes water at me.
I raise a brow. “You sure you want to start a war you can’t win?”
Her eyes flash. “Oh, I can win.”
“Okay,” I say, voice low. “Come here.”
She squints. “Why?”
“So I can show you the part where you lose.”
She snorts, then lunges forward like she’s going to splash me again.
I catch her wrists gently—easily—before she can.
Her breath hitches.
The water laps at our bodies. The cold doesn’t matter for a second.
Her eyes lift to mine. And something in the air shifts.
She’s close enough that I can see the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lashes clump slightly from water spray.
I can feel her pulse in her wrists under my fingers.
She swallows, and I let her go. Slowly. Deliberately.
Because this isn’t the time to push. Not when she’s finally laughing. Not when she’s finally breathing.
Salem steps back, blinking like she just remembered what her body can do when it’s near someone dangerous. Then she splashes me again—harder. I bark a laugh and retaliate, sending a sheet of water toward her. She squeals, and then tries to dodge, slipping a little on the stones.
My instincts snap. I’m on her in a second, hand braced at her waist, steadying her. “You okay?” I ask, too sharp.
Salem freezes like she’s startled by how fast I moved. Then she nods, breathless. “Yeah.”
My palm is still on her hip. My fingers can feel the warmth of her skin through wet fabric. I should move. I do move. But not before her gaze drops to my hand, then slides back up to my face. Heat flashes between us, brief and dangerous.
“Don’t go all protective dad on me,” she mutters.
I snort. “Protective dad?”
She gestures vaguely at me. “You know. ‘Be careful, you’ll slip.’”
I tilt my head. “Salem, I’m just worried about you. About what happened to you.”
Her expression changes instantly, the playful edge falling away.
I regret the words the second they’re out. I don’t want to drag her back into it.
But Salem doesn’t flinch. She just exhales slowly, like she’s letting truth sit beside her. “Yeah,” she whispers.
We stand in the creek for a minute longer, letting the water and silence do something neither of us can do alone. Then Salem wades toward a rock and sits, water around her hips, arms draped over her knees. I sit on a nearby stone, keeping my body angled toward her, not crowding.
She looks out at the water, eyes distant.
“You want to talk?” I ask quietly.
Salem’s mouth curves without humor. “About my tragic backstory?”
“About anything,” I say. “You don’t have to. I’m just… here.”
She stares at the surface of the creek like it might answer for her. Then she says, voice low, “My mom never cared.” It’s blunt. No pause. No buildup. Just a fact she’s carried so long it’s turned into stone.
My chest tightens.
Salem shrugs like it’s nothing. “She cared about men. About attention. About whatever made her feel… important. I was an inconvenience.”
I hold my expression neutral even though rage is building behind my ribs like a storm.
“And her boyfriend,” Salem continues, a slight curl of disgust twisting her mouth. “Carl.”
My jaw flexes.
“Carl’s… a scumbag,” she says. “Always has been. Creeps me out. He’d look at me like—” She swallows. “Like I was… something he could take.”
My hands clench around the edge of the rock. I keep my voice calm. “Is he still around?”