Chapter 10 Ozzy
TEN
OZZY
If you’d told me last week that I’d be coordinating a covert delivery of skateboards and roller skates to a Maddox safehouse like it’s an Prime order for joy, I would’ve asked what drugs you were on and whether you were sharing.
But here we are.
Rainmaker is quiet in the late morning—sunlight spilling across the living room floor, the house warm and calm and deceptively normal. Salem is in the kitchen humming under her breath while she rinses berries in a colander, hair pulled up messy, wearing one of the oversized tees from Juno’s duffel.
She looks… lighter. She’s still guarded. Still scanning windows sometimes like her body can’t help it. But lighter. And that matters.
I keep my phone angled away from her, thumb moving fast across the secure channel.
OZZY: Need a favor.
ARROW: You finally confessing you can’t cook?
OZZY: I can cook. This is… recreational.
JUNO: That’s the most suspicious thing you’ve ever typed.
OZZY: Two skateboards. One orange if possible. And roller skates.
ARROW: …
JUNO: I KNEW IT. Safehouse playdate.
OZZY: Don’t call it that.
JUNO: It’s a playdate.
ARROW: Size on skates?
OZZY: Women’s 8. My size… whatever doesn’t kill me.
JUNO: You’re going to break a hip. I can’t wait.
ARROW: I’ll route it through normal delivery. No trace. Give it 48-72.
OZZY: Thanks.
JUNO: If she smiles, you owe me a full recap.
OZZY: You’ll get nothing.
JUNO: You’ll give me everything.
I lock my phone and exhale.
From the kitchen, Salem glances over. “You look like you’re committing crimes.”
I tilt my head. “I am committing crimes.”
Her brows lift. “For once, that’s comforting.”
I smirk. “Good. Because I just ordered you happiness.”
Salem freezes mid-rinse. “You did what?”
I step into the kitchen and lean against the counter, playing it casual even though my pulse is stupidly fast. “I asked Arrow and Juno to send two boards and roller skates.”
Her eyes widen. “Ozzy—”
“Before you say no,” I cut in, holding up a hand, “I’m not doing a ‘here’s a gift, now owe me your soul’ thing.”
Salem’s mouth twitches. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You were,” I accuse.
She crosses her arms, still holding the colander. “Okay, I was.”
I point at her. “I’m doing it because you asked for the creek and your face changed. I’m doing it because you deserve things that aren’t survival. And I’m doing it because you said you’d teach me.”
Salem’s gaze flicks away, like she’s trying not to let the emotion show.
“Also,” I add, because humor helps, “I want to watch you laugh at me when I eat pavement.”
Her eyes snap back. “You’re going to die.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Then you’ll have to keep me alive,” I say lightly.
Salem stares at me. And something quiet passes between us—warm, complicated. Then she mutters, “Fine. But if you break your neck, I’m not doing mouth-to-mouth.”
I grin. “Noted.”
The delivery shows up two days later. Rainmaker’s security protocol flags it, I confirm the route is clean, then I bring the box inside like it’s contraband.
Salem stands in the living room with her hands on her hips, eyes locked on the package like it might vanish if she blinks. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, but her voice is soft. She almost appears excited.
“I’m efficient,” I correct. “Open it.”
She hesitates. Not because she doesn’t want it. Because wanting things still scares her.
So I step closer and quietly say, “You’re allowed.”
Her throat bobs. Then she slices the tape with a kitchen knife and folds back the cardboard. The top board is orange. Beat-up aesthetic on purpose, sticker pack included. Juno probably did that. Because Juno is insane in the best way.
Salem’s hand hovers over it like she’s afraid it’ll burn. Then her fingers touch the deck. She exhales, slow and shaky. “Orange,” she whispers.
“Orange,” I confirm.
She lifts it out, and the way she holds it is reverent—like it’s more than wood and wheels. Like it’s her. Then she digs deeper and pulls out the second board—plain black, wider, sturdier, clearly chosen for a beginner who values not dying.
She lifts her eyes to me. “This one’s yours.”
I nod. “Teach me.”
Her smile appears like sunrise. It’s so fucking pretty. It hits me straight in the chest.
“Okay,” she says, voice lighter. “But you have to promise you won’t be dramatic.”
“I’m never dramatic.”
Salem snorts. “You’re dramatic right now.”
“That’s not drama,” I argue. “That’s confidence.”
We take the boards out back to the paved strip behind the safehouse—a service path that cuts along the property edge. It isn’t a skatepark, but it’s smooth enough to roll, with a few gentle dips, a low curb, and a small stretch that Salem immediately claims as her “training zone.”
She drops her orange board on the pavement with easy familiarity and steps on like she was born with wheels under her feet.
Then she looks at me standing beside my board like it’s a suspicious animal.
“Okay,” she says, switching into instructor mode.
“First lesson: stop standing like you’re about to fight the skateboard. ”
“I don’t trust it,” I say.
“The skateboard can sense fear,” she replies with absolute seriousness.
I glare. “Are you messing with me?”
Salem’s grin goes wicked. “Yes.”
I step onto the board anyway. It rolls a half-inch. I stiffen.
Salem laughs, and the sound makes me forget how to breathe for a second. “Bend your knees,” she orders.
“I am bending.”
“No, you’re… aggressively hovering.”
“Hovering is safe.”
“Hovering is how you fall,” she says, then steps close and taps my thighs lightly. “Bend. Here.”
Her fingers are barely there, but my whole body lights up.
I clear my throat. “Okay.”
Salem circles me like I’m prey, adjusting my stance. “Feet shoulder-width. Front foot angled. Back foot ready to push.”
“Push,” I repeat.
“Push,” she confirms. “And don’t look at your feet.”
I immediately look at my feet.
Salem groans. “Ozzy.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t die,” she says. “You’ll just embarrass yourself.”
“That’s worse.”
Salem steps back onto her own board and glides forward, smooth and effortless. She turns her head to call over her shoulder, “Follow me.”
I push once. The board rolls, and I wobble. This shit is hard. My arms windmill like a man possessed.
Salem turns, eyes wide. “Stop flailing like that!”
“I’m not flailing!” I shout, flailing. “I’m adjusting.”
She bursts into laughter again, and it’s so contagious I start laughing too—even as I step off the board like it’s trying to murder me.
Salem skates in a circle around me, teasing. “I thought you were the tough guy.”
“I am tough,” I say. “I just prefer my violence… stationary.”
Salem snorts. “Okay, Mr. Keyboard Warrior.”
“I will end you,” I warn.
“With what,” she asks sweetly, “your inability to balance?”
I lunge for her, but she rolls away easily, laughing. I chase her on foot, and she keeps just out of reach, taunting me with little turns and stops like she’s dancing.
The sun warms the back of my neck. The air smells like pine. Salem’s laughter floats through the trees. For a few minutes, it almost feels like the world isn’t full of monsters. It almost feels like we’re just… two people.
I finally get back on the board. Salem guides me through pushing again, then rolling, then stopping. I manage a full ten seconds without looking like a complete amateur.
Salem claps dramatically. “Look at you! A baby deer learning to walk.”
I flip her off. “Your motivational style is toxic.”
“It’s effective,” she counters.
We skate for almost an hour, and by the end my legs feel like they’ve been personally attacked.
Salem’s cheeks are flushed, hair escaping the bun, eyes bright in a way I keep storing in my memory like ammunition against her bad days.
When we finally head inside, we’re both sweaty and laughing and starving.
We make lunch together—simple sandwiches and chips, fruit on the side—because Salem insists on eating like her body matters now, and I insist on not letting her slip back into survival habits. We sit at the counter, legs bumping sometimes. Okay, sure… it’s completely on purpose. At least on my end.
Salem bites into her sandwich and says, “Okay. Movie tonight?”
“Yep,” I say. “Pick your poison.”
Salem chews thoughtfully. “Something not depressing. I already lived depressing.”
I nod. “Fair.” I lean back slightly. “Juno has a scary movie podcast, by the way.”
Salem’s brows lift. “She does?”
“Yep,” I say. “She watches slashers and breaks them down like she’s analyzing enemy tactics.”
Salem smiles. “That’s… very cool.”
“It is,” I agree. “And she said the new slasher film is good.”
Salem hesitates. “I don’t love scary movies.”
“You don’t have to,” I say quickly.
She studies me, then shrugs. “We can try it.”
I grin. “Okay. Slasher it is.”
That night, we make popcorn and settle on the couch. I keep the lights low but not off, because I’m not an idiot. Salem’s nervous system doesn’t need to be surprised by darkness right now. She sits curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket, and a popcorn bowl in her lap.
I take the other side, close enough that our knees almost touch.
The movie starts with that familiar horror setup: quiet street, ominous music, someone alone.
Salem tries to be brave for the first twenty minutes, but I can feel her tension building.
Her shoulders rise. Her fingers grip the blanket tighter.
Halfway through, the killer appears—mask, knife, heavy breathing in the soundtrack.
Salem’s popcorn stops moving. She goes still. Then the jump scare hits. Salem yelps and jerks so hard she spills popcorn everywhere. Her breath catches. She laughs at herself immediately, but her eyes are wide, and I see it.
I pause the movie.
Salem looks at me quickly, embarrassed. “I’m fine.”
I don’t argue. I just shift closer and open my arm.
Salem hesitates for a fraction of a second.
Then she scoots into me like she’s done it a hundred times, tucking her head against my shoulder.
My arm wraps around her slowly, carefully.
She fits perfectly against me, and I suddenly can no longer breathe.
Fuck.
Her breath stutters once, then eases.
I press my mouth lightly to her hair. “You don’t have to prove anything,” I murmur.
Salem’s voice is small. “I hate being scared.”
“I know,” I say.
She swallows. “Can we watch something else?”
“Yeah,” I say immediately. “We can watch cartoons. We can watch a baking show. We can watch paint dry.”
Salem snorts weakly. “Paint dry sounds thrilling.”
“I’ll narrate it,” I promise. “In a dramatic voice.”
That gets a real laugh out of her, and I feel it in my chest like relief.
I switch the movie to something lighter—some stupid action-comedy with explosions and jokes that don’t require emotional resilience.
Salem stays pressed into my side. Her fingers curl lightly into my shirt like she’s anchoring herself.
And as the minutes pass, I realize something I don’t say out loud: I like being her safe place.
I like… her. A lot. Too much. And there’s a part of me who would do anything to keep her with me forever. Even though I just met her.
It’s illogical, right?
But logic stopped mattering the second she laughed in the creek.
Salem shifts slightly, tilting her face up toward mine, eyes heavy with sleep. “Ozzy,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
Her lips part like she’s going to say something important. Then she just sighs and murmurs, “Thanks.”
My throat tightens. I smooth my hand over her arm. “Always.”
Salem’s eyes flutter closed again, the tension easing out of her body. And I sit there, holding her, watching the stupid movie play in the background, thinking about skateboards and roller skates and the fact that happiness is apparently something you can deliver in a box.
And that I’ll do it again.
Over and over.
As many times as she needs.