Chapter 12
WYATT
The first thing I did when I got back to Mama P's was make a call.
I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at a contact I hadn't used in months.
Mitch Webb. Defense Intelligence Agency.
Twenty-five years in the game, most of it spent in places that didn't officially exist doing things that would never make it into reports.
The kind of guy who knew things before they happened and kept secrets that would topple governments, if he ever decided to talk.
If anyone could tell me about Dominion Hall, it was him.
He answered on the third ring, his voice gravel and amusement. "Dane. Didn't expect to hear from you. Thought you were enjoying mandatory fun time."
"Need a favor."
"Always do." I could hear him smiling through the line. "What's the ask?"
"Dominion Hall. Charleston, South Carolina. What do you know?"
There was a pause. Not the kind where someone was searching for information or buying time. The kind where they already had it and were deciding how much to share, how many layers to peel back.
"They're the good guys," Mitch said finally. "Period."
I blinked. "That's it?"
"That's it. Clean operation. High standards. Resources most people can only dream about. If you're asking about them, you've already passed the first test just by being on their radar." He paused. "Why are you asking?"
"There might be a job in it for me."
Mitch whistled low, the sound sharp with approval. "If that's true, jump on it. Dominion Hall has serious clout and serious resources. A man like you could do a lot of good with that kind of backing. Real good. The kind that sticks."
"But?"
"No buts. Just truth. They're careful about who they bring in. Selective as hell. If they're talking to you, it's because you fit. Don't overthink it, Dane. That's always been your problem."
I exhaled slowly, tension I didn't know I was carrying releasing from my shoulders. "Appreciate it, Mitch."
"Of course, this is all unofficial."
We both laughed—the kind of laugh that came from years of operating in shadows where nothing was ever really official and everything mattered, anyway.
"I owe you a beer next time I'm in Washington," I said.
"You owe me several. But I'll start with one."
I ended the call and sat there for a moment, letting it sink in.
Dominion Hall was checking out. Clean. Legitimate. The good guys.
Mitch didn't say that lightly. He'd seen too much, knew too many organizations that looked clean on paper and were rotting from the inside out, full of people who'd convinced themselves the ends justified any means. If he vouched for them—even unofficially—it meant something.
For the first time in a long time, something felt right. Like a door was opening instead of closing.
And tonight? Tonight I had plans that had nothing to do with recruitment or missions or weighing moral complexities in rooms with twenty-two chairs and secrets I didn't understand yet.
Tonight, I was going dancing with Sophie.
I showered, shaved carefully around the jawline I'd let get scruffy, pulled out my well-worn cowboy boots—the good ones, broken in and comfortable, the leather soft from years of wear—and the black Stetson I'd had since high school.
Nicest pair of jeans I owned—dark, fitted, broken in just right.
Black denim button-down, sleeves rolled to my elbows because nobody danced in long sleeves unless they wanted to die of heatstroke.
I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself.
Not because I looked different. Because I looked ... happy. Relaxed. Like someone who had something to look forward to instead of something to survive. Like the version of me that used to exist before I learned how to carry weight without showing it.
The place was called Dusty's. North Charleston.
Exactly what you'd expect from a honky-tonk trying to bring Texas to the Carolinas—neon signs glowing in the windows promising cold beer and hot music, wood-paneled walls covered in old license plates and faded concert posters, a mechanical bull in the corner that looked like it had seen better days and kept going, anyway, out of pure spite.
It wasn't rundown, but it wasn't fancy either. Just honest. Real. The kind of place where people came to dance and drink and forget about whatever was weighing them down for a few hours.
The crowd was a good mix—young couples pressed close on the dance floor, older folks who actually knew how to dance instead of just swaying, groups of friends laughing too loud over cheap beer and bad decisions they'd make again tomorrow. Everyone there for the same reason: to have a good time.
I liked it immediately. Felt at home in a way I hadn't expected to feel anywhere outside Texas.
I was leaning against the bar, nursing a Lone Star because they actually had it on tap, when they walked in.
All three of them. Beth in boots and a dress that somehow worked—country meets confident, all blonde hair and red lips. Natasha in jeans and a leather jacket that made her look effortlessly cool, like she'd stepped out of a magazine without trying.
And Sophie.
Jesus Christ.
She wore jeans that fit like they'd been designed specifically to destroy me.
Fitted in all the right places, hugging curves I had no business noticing but couldn't stop cataloging, anyway.
Boots that added an inch to her height. A fitted top that showed just enough to make my brain short-circuit—bare shoulders, collarbone catching the neon light, everything suddenly very warm in here despite the air conditioning working overtime.
Her hair was down, loose waves catching the neon glow and the low bar lights, and when she smiled—when she saw me and her whole face lit up like I was the only person in the room—
I felt it. Low in my gut. A pull so strong it knocked the breath out of me and made me grip the bar to stay steady.
This was Sophie. My Sophie. The girl who used to steal my fries and laugh at my terrible jokes and throw rocks at my window at two in the morning because she couldn't sleep and didn't want to be alone.
Except she wasn't a girl anymore. She was a woman who moved like she knew exactly what she was doing to me and was deciding whether or not to be merciful about it.
And I was in serious trouble.
"Wyatt!" Beth waved, grinning like she knew exactly what she was doing bringing Sophie here looking like that.
I pushed off the bar and walked over, tipping my hat because some things were automatic, bred into you by a Texas mother who didn't tolerate rudeness. "Ladies."
Sophie's eyes lingered on me—the hat, the boots, the rolled sleeves, the whole package—and something flickered in her expression. Heat. Recognition. Want that she didn't bother hiding.
"You clean up nice, Dane," she said, voice just rough enough to notice, to file away for later.
"You look ..." I stopped, shook my head because words weren't going to cut it, not even close. "Yeah. You look incredible."
Her cheeks flushed pink, and I wanted to make her do that again. Immediately. Repeatedly. For the rest of the night.
The night kicked off fast.
We grabbed drinks—whiskey neat for me, something fruity and frozen for the girls that came in glasses too big to be practical—and found a spot near the edge of the dance floor where we could watch the band warm up, testing the sound system and tuning guitars.
I was in a good mood. Better than I'd been in months. Maybe years. Chattier than usual, cracking jokes, telling stories about Valentine that made them laugh until Beth snorted her drink and Natasha had to wipe tears from her eyes.
"Wait," Beth said, still laughing. "You actually rode a mechanical bull drunk?"
"I was sixteen and stupid," I said. "And technically I wasn't drunk, just ... optimistic about my abilities. And I lasted eight seconds, which is all that mattered. Got the buckle to prove it."
Sophie laughed, the sound hitting me square in the chest like something physical. "You were always showing off."
"Only for you."
The words slipped out before I could stop them, honest and unfiltered and true in a way that made the air shift.
She met my eyes, something softening in her expression. "I know."
The air between us shifted. Tightened. Charged with something we were both pretending not to notice yet.
The band started playing—a fast two-step that got people moving immediately, boots hitting the floor in rhythm, the whole room coming alive.
"Come on," Sophie said, grabbing my hand. "Let's see if you remember how."
I let her pull me onto the floor, her hand warm in mine, and the second we started moving, it all came back.
Muscle memory. Rhythm. The way her body followed mine without thinking, like we'd done this a thousand times before even though we hadn't, like we'd been dancing together our whole lives instead of just tonight.
We hadn't danced together since we were kids at the county fair, stumbling through steps we barely knew, laughing at how bad we were.
This was different. This was us knowing exactly what we were doing and choosing to do it together.
She was good. Really good. Keeping up with me, matching my pace, anticipating my moves, laughing when I spun her out and pulled her back in, her body fitting against mine like it belonged there.
"You've been practicing," I said, slightly breathless.
"Austin has honky-tonks, too," she shot back, grinning, eyes bright with challenge.
The song ended, and another started—slower this time. A waltz. George Strait. Something about carrying love with you wherever you go.
I hesitated for half a second, then pulled her closer.
Her hand settled on my shoulder. Mine found the small of her back, warm through the fabric of her shirt, feeling her breathing. We moved together, slower now, the space between us shrinking until I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, could count the rhythm of it.
"This okay?" I asked quietly, giving her an out if she needed it.
"Yeah," she breathed. "This is more than okay."
We danced through three more songs. Fast ones where we laughed and spun and nearly crashed into other couples who were too drunk to care or too in love to notice.
Slow ones where the world narrowed to just us, her body pressed against mine, her breath warm against my neck, my hand tightening on her waist like I was afraid she might disappear, if I let go.
The electricity between us was impossible to ignore now. Every touch sent sparks up my arm. Every look held weight. Every moment her fingers brushed my neck or my hand slid across her back felt like a question we were both too careful to answer out loud yet.
We took a break, grabbing water, catching our breath, both of us flushed and laughing and alive.
Beth and Natasha were dancing with a group of locals who'd clearly adopted them for the night—teaching them line dances, buying them drinks, having the kind of fun that made everyone around them smile. Natasha waved us over, but Sophie shook her head.
"I need a minute," she said, fanning herself with one hand, hair sticking slightly to her neck.
We found a quieter corner, leaning against the wall, watching the crowd move and sway and live, the music pulsing through the floorboards.
"You having fun?" I asked.
"Yeah." She looked up at me, eyes bright, smile genuine and unguarded. "I really am."
"Good."
"You?"
"Best night I've had in a long time," I admitted. "Maybe ever."
Her expression shifted—something vulnerable flickering across her face. "Me, too."
We stood there for a moment, the noise of the bar fading into background static, like someone had turned the volume down on everything that wasn't her.
"Wyatt—"
"Sophie—"
We both stopped, laughing at the timing, at how in sync we were, even now.
"You first," I said.
She bit her lip, considering her words carefully. "I'm glad we found each other again. I didn't know I needed this until it happened."
"Me, too."
"I mean it," she continued, voice dropping lower, more intimate. "I didn't realize how much I missed—" She stopped, shook her head. "This. You. Us. Whatever we were and whatever we might be."
Something in my chest cracked open, warm and dangerous and terrifying.
"Soph ..."
The band kicked into another song—loud, fast, demanding attention, breaking the moment before it could fully form into something we'd have to acknowledge.
"Come on," she said, grabbing my hand again, pulling me back toward the floor. "One more."
We danced until we were both breathless and laughing and drunk on something that had nothing to do with alcohol.
Until my shirt was sticking to my back and her hair was coming loose from whatever she'd done to it.
Until the space between us felt like the only real thing in the room, the only thing that mattered.
And when the night finally started winding down, when Beth and Natasha were saying their goodbyes to their new friends and the band was packing up their equipment with tired efficiency, Sophie turned to me.
"Walk me out?"
"Yeah. Of course."
We stepped outside into the warm Charleston night, the air thick and alive with humidity and possibility and the promise of something just out of reach, music still thumping faintly behind us through the walls.
She stopped near the parking lot, under a streetlight that cast everything in amber and shadow, turning to face me.
"Tonight was perfect," she said.
"It was."
She looked up at me, and the space between us felt impossibly small. Charged. Like the air before a storm when you could taste the electricity on your tongue and knew something inevitable was coming.
"Wyatt ..."
I stepped closer. Just a fraction. Just enough that I could smell her perfume—something light and sweet that made me want to lean in further, to close the distance entirely.
"Yeah?"
Her breath hitched. Her eyes dropped to my mouth, lingered there for a heartbeat too long, then back up to meet mine.
And then—