7. Scarlett
Scarlett
I t hit me all at once.
The heat. The liquor. The weight of everything I hadn’t said.
One minute I was sitting by the fire, laughing too loudly at something Kane said. The next, I was standing—too fast, too dizzy—the tilt of the world, and the sharp edge of too much all at once.
“Scar,” Lena’s voice called. “Hey—slow down.”
I waved her off, stepping backward toward the edge of the firelight. “I’m fine,” I slurred, my mouth slower than my thoughts. “Just need—air.”
“Scarlett.” Alden’s voice was closer. Sharper.
I took another step toward the trees or the dock—I wasn’t sure. The night was too big, the ground too loose.
A hand wrapped gently around my wrist.
“Hey.”
Trace’s voice was low, steady, all grit and gravity. “Come here, Sunshine.”
I froze. Just for a second. That damn name.
I scoffed, Twisting my arm. “Don’t Sunshine me like you didn’t vanish off the face of the earth.”
His expression stayed unreadable, carved from stone and old regret.
I yanked my arm back, off balance and full of heat, stumbling straight into Alden. He caught me fast, one arm wrapping around my waist, the other bracing my fall.
“Jesus, Scar,” he muttered, holding me tighter than I wanted to admit. “You trying to fall into the fucking lake?”
I blinked up at him, blurry and hot. “You always this dramatic?”
“You’re about to crack your head open and I’m dramatic?”
He shifted me upright, slower, one hand still firm on my lower back.
“You’re done drinking,” he said.
“I wasn’t aware I voted you in as my handler.”
“You didn’t. We just don’t like watching you fall apart, Love.”
That one hit. More than I expected.
Trace stepped closer. “She’s not fine.”
“No shit,” Kane muttered somewhere behind us.
Rhett handed over a bottle of water and whistled low. “You’re gonna hate yourself tomorrow.”
“I already do,” I said, too quiet for most to hear.
But Trace heard it.
Taking the bottle from Rhett, he stepped right into my space, blocking the moonlight. Not aggressive. Not soft either, and handed it to me. “Drink.”
I stared up at him, blinking too long. “You gonna carry me back if I don’t?”
His eyes didn’t flinch. “Try me.”
Sloane appeared behind him, hands on her hips. “Let’s get her inside.”
“I’ve got her,” Alden said quickly, like it was non-negotiable.
Trace stood still, tension rippling through him. His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t step back. “She’s not walking alone.”
Their eyes locked—not with hate. Not with rage. Just with years of unspoken things and one girl swaying between them.
“I can walk,” I muttered.
“You’re not walking,” Sloane said.
“I got her,” Alden repeated, arm already steadying me.
Trace didn’t argue, just followed.
Back up the hill. Through the soft night. Into the cabin.
They got me to bed—Sloane muttering something about hydration and idiots—Alden pulling the blanket up over my legs like he’d done it before.
Like he wished this night ended differently.
Trace didn’t cross the threshold. He just stood there—watching, burning.
I could feel it, even through my fog. Want.
Regret. Something old and quiet, as if he’d already lost me and didn’t know how to get me back.
I faded fast.
But before the night took me, I felt a hand gently press on my forehead.
A voice like smoke saying, “She doesn’t even see it.”
Then the click of the door shutting behind him.