Chapter 2
Blakelyn
There’s a hole in the screen door that lets mosquitoes in and a crack in the porch step that’ll widen with just enough weight or pressure, but I think that’s part of the charm. Everything here is a little undone… a little weathered.
Including me.
I’ve only been in Juniper Falls for two days, but it already feels more real than the last three years of my life. Not safe, exactly. Not yet. But quiet . And that counts for more than I can explain.
I step barefoot into the morning heat, coffee in hand, and sink down onto the top step of the porch.
The river’s already glinting in the sun like it’s got secrets, the water is green-hued.
I’m not certain if it’s from what’s in it or the trees above it, maybe both.
Downstream, toward Gruene’s shop, I hear voices—early floaters getting set up for a day on the water.
Someone laughs. A dog barks and it carries.
There’s a hum of summer that feels… untouched.
And then, I hear his boots.
Gruene.
He doesn’t make a sound otherwise—no greeting, no whistles, not even a cough as acknowledgement of my presence. Just the steady crunch of his steps as he walks the worn path from his cabin to the dock we share. Every time I hear his feet meet the ground, something twists low in my belly.
He doesn’t even glance my way, but I watch him out of the corner of my eye.
His gray t-shirt with his company logo on the chest molds to him, showcasing his trim physique.
Even the ridges of the scars I saw in the moonlight are visible under the worn fabric.
His jeans are faded and fit like they were custom-made.
That same low-brimmed cap adorns his head, shadowing his eyes.
He’s got a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and even from here I can see the tension in his jaw.
The scar appears white in the darkness of his scruff.
He’s always wound so tight. Always appears so closed off. But I can’t stop watching him.
I know that posture. I know what it means to walk like your skin doesn’t fit right.
I know what it means to carry weight no one else can see. And he’s so attractive. Wounded and guarded, but he almost steals my breath.
What happened to him? What caused those scars? And why is he so guarded?
He drops the bag on the dock and kneels to check something near the boat launch. His shirt rides up slightly, and my stomach clenches at the edge of a scar I didn’t notice the first night. It curves along his lower back like a cruel fingerprint. One of many.
I sip my coffee, trying to pretend I’m not staring. But I am. Because when he moves, I feel it.
He’s a storm with legs. And something about him makes me want to predict the weather.
What are you talking about Blakelyn?
No. That is the last thing I need.
By late afternoon, I’ve unpacked the last of my few boxes and hung the lone photo I brought—me and Grandma Nan.
Our arms are wrapped around each other as we stand in front of the school where I got my first teaching job.
It’s the same school she taught at for forty years before retiring.
She’s why I became a teacher. She’s also the only person who ever believed I could be more than someone’s bruised possession.
She died last year. A stroke. It was quick and quiet. She probably didn’t even know what was happening, the doctor said. The kind of ending she probably would’ve preferred. But she would’ve hated how long it took me to leave him .
“I did it, Grandma Nan,” I whisper. “I finally left. I’m okay.” My voice cracks, and I press my fist against my chest. “I’m okay,” I say it again. Louder. But the tears still come. Sinking to the floor, I let them fall because even here, even free, I’m not whole yet.
I don’t expect the knock.
It’s not loud. Just two quick raps on the screen door. I jolt upright from where I’ve been sitting on the floor, swiping at my face with my sleeve.
Gruene is on the other side when I open it.
His eyes flick to my cheeks. He doesn’t mention the tears.
“Don’t just open the door. You ask who it is. But I fixed your mailbox,” he gruffly says.
I figured it was him. Who else would it be?
I blink. “What?”
“You’re a woman living alone. Be smart. And the mailbox was crooked. The post was rotting. I had a spare four-by-four.”
I stare at him.
Is he lecturing me about my safety? And he fixed my mailbox.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Figured it’d bother you,” and turns to go.
“Wait,” I say.
He pauses.
“I—thank you. I assumed it was you at the door. I don’t know anyone else. And … you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He replies.
“But you did it anyway?” I say with a question in my tone.
“Yep.” He grunts.
“Why?” I ask since he’s not volunteering any information.
His jaw tics. He doesn’t look at me. Then, he quietly says, “Because people should have things that don’t fall apart.”
Oh, wow.
My breath catches. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods, just once, and walks away.
I sit there, stunned… because I just saw the tiniest sliver of the man behind the armor. And it damn near broke me.
It’s fully dark, no hint of the day is left, when I wander down toward the river. I couldn’t sit still and nothing was keeping my attention. Not after the way he looked at me earlier today.
Almost like… he cared.
Stop it, Blakelyn.
He’s just a man with a single woman next door.
Of course, he’s looking out for you. Even if he doesn’t want to. It’s in his nature.
There’s nothing more to it.
I hear music. It’s low and rough, drifting from the tubing shack. The lights are still on inside, though it’s after hours, and it’s long been closed. I inch closer.
He’s working on something. A pile of worn life jackets sits beside him, and he’s threading new buckles through the straps like he’s building armor. The music’s gritty. Bluesy. Some kind of outlaw country that sounds like whiskey and broken hearts.
I shouldn’t interrupt. But I want to. So, instead of walking straight back to my cabin, I knock on the doorframe.
His eyes flick up in what looks like annoyance. He doesn’t smile. He never smiles… but he doesn’t tell me to leave either.
“Do you need help?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He arches a brow. “You know how to sew a harness strap?” He dryly asks.
“No. But I’m good at making conversation.”
“That right?”
I nod, stepping inside. “And I make a mean cup of coffee. I thought you might need some.”
I hold up the thermos I brought. It’s navy blue, worn, probably older than me. Grandma Nan’s.
He takes it from my hand like it weighs more than it should. Nodding once, he motions to the stool across from him.
We don’t talk much.
He works. I sip my coffee. The music plays, but there’s something in the silence.
Something comfortable. Something alive.
Something that says maybe I’m not the only one trying to hold broken pieces together.
I welcome it.
Gruene
The first time I saw someone drown, I didn’t know what I was looking at.
That’s the thing about drowning—it doesn’t look like it does in movies. There’s no flailing. No screaming. It’s silent. A quiet desperation beneath the surface. A hand that doesn’t reach high enough. A mouth that opens but pulls nothing in… but water. It’s easy to miss.
That’s what I think about when she walks into my damn shack like she’s got no fear in her body.
I’m a hard, cold man. A man she doesn’t know a damn thing about.
I could be anyone. I could be capable of anything, and she doesn’t know.
She’s calm, comfortable, and trusting. And she shouldn’t be. It’s dangerous. She’s dangerous.
Blakelyn.
Barefoot with her dark hair down and loose, holding an old thermos like she owns the night. She has no idea what the darkness hides.
I’m sitting at my worktable, hands buried in frayed nylon, trying like hell to concentrate on replacing buckles before the next float run. But there she is, sitting on the stool across from me like a warm breeze, smelling like sugar and some kind of clean that doesn’t belong here.
“I can help,” she says again.
I shake my head no, not saying a word. She’s in my space. Unknowing or uncaring that I don’t want her in here. Just watching me work, sipping her coffee, and humming along to my radio.
She’s got that look again… open, watching everything without judgment. She’s not trying to figure me out. She’s just seeing me.
It annoys me. It pisses me off. But I let her sit. I let her stay.
And I listen to her hum and watch her watch me from the corner of my eye.
She stays for over an hour. She doesn’t try to talk. She doesn’t fidget. She just exists like she belongs beside the mess I am, and she’s content just being here. I realize that her presence doesn’t crowd. It calms .
That’s a fucking problem.
I don’t want calm.
I want distance.
I want boundaries.
I want her to get back in her damn Honda and leave.
Lies. I don’t.
And that’s the biggest problem of all.
The quiet between us is starting to feel like a tether, and I’m not sure I know how to cut it.
“You always fix things yourself?” she finally asks.
“Yeah,” I grunt it without looking up.
“Don’t like help?” She asks not taking the hint.
“No.”
Her lips curve, I can see her smile behind her cup, though I refuse to look at her. “Good thing I’m just drinking coffee then.”
I huff. A breath escapes. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s the closest thing to one I’ve had since I can remember. “That yours?” I ask jerking my chin to her thermos.
She lifts the old Stanley thermos. “It is now. It was my grandmother’s. She kept it in her classroom for years. Said every bad day could be fixed with strong coffee, a locked door, and a good ear.”
Her grandmother sounds like a good woman.
“Sounds like a woman who knew things.” I grunt.
“She did.” The silence stretches again, and something shifts in her eyes. Not playful this time. Just honest. “She died last fall,” she says. “Right before everything went to hell.”