Chapter 5 Levi
CHAPTER FIVE
Levi
The lake is so still it doesn’t seem real.
Sunlight glints off the surface like shards of glass, too perfect, too calm. My lungs won’t expand, and I’m running, feet slipping on wet pine needles, heart in my throat, yelling her name into the trees.
“Tessa!”
A flash of pink floats just beyond the dock. A sandal.
“Tessa!”
I dive in, boots and all. Water fills my ears, my mouth, my chest. I fight the cold and the drag of denim, groping under the surface until I feel fingers—small, limp fingers. Her wrist. I grip her tight and kick toward the surface.
She doesn’t move.
My eyes snap open, breath sharp. My sheets are damp, twisted around me like I fought them in my sleep.
I blink once. Twice. The room swims into focus.
My phone is buzzing against the nightstand. I check the time—5:03 p.m.
Not morning. Not even close. Just my body messing with me after a week that dragged me through more calls, more stress, more near-misses than I care to count. I stare at the name glowing on my screen: Beau.
I pick up. “Yeah?”
“You alive?” he asks, already half-laughing. “Or did a ten-hour nap finally finish you off?”
“Barely,” I croak, pushing upright. “What’s up?”
“Smokehouse tonight. Me, you, Simon. Mick’s behind the bar, so you know the beer’s cold and the gossip’s hot.”
I grin. “Yeah, alright. Let me shower.”
He hangs up with a grunt that passes for approval, and I toss the covers aside. Stretching, I roll my shoulders and run a hand down my face.
The dream lingers like smoke in my lungs. It always does. I haven’t had it in a while, but when it hits, it floors me.
Jesus. I’d only just passed out. I’d pulled a forty-eight-hour shift, crawled into bed, and now I feel like a semi has trampled me.
It’s technically my day off. I’d planned to sleep, maybe cook something that doesn’t involve a takeout container.
I groan. But something about the idea of the three of us back at our booth feels like exactly what I need.
Beau and Simon. My brothers in all the ways that count.
We met in the chaos—cross-training, trauma rotations, live burn modules. I was still trying to carve out a valuable role for myself back then.
Some paramedics chase adrenaline. I chased purpose.
Beau with his sun-and-smoke charm. Simon with his gruff brilliance and zero filter. We shouldn’t have clicked. But we did.
Some of the guys in town jokingly call us the Rescue Pack—like we’re some emergency-themed boy band. I’d be annoyed if it weren’t a little funny.
I open my contact list and tap Tessa’s name.
“Are you dying?” she answers immediately.
“I could ask you the same,” I say, smirking.
She’s out of state now, in her second year of graduate school. Environmental science. She wants to save the planet, and I believe she will.
Still, part of me wants her back here, where I can make sure no lake or idiot ever hurts her again.
“Why do you sound like you’re calling from a bunker?”
“Nightmare.”
“Oh,” she says softly. “That one again?”
“Yeah.”
A pause. Then: “You know I’m alive, right? Breathing. No lake monster pulled me under.”
I smile. “Just checking.”
Another pause. Then her voice turns bratty, familiar. “So… while I have you… I may need thirty bucks.”
I groan. “For what?”
“My roommate’s birthday dinner.”
I snort. “Dinner? Or margaritas?”
She gasps, offended. “Levi Maddox, how dare you accuse me of being predictable?”
“I’m sending forty.”
“God bless you.”
“Tess.”
“I’m fine,” she says, the teasing slipping into something softer. “Seriously, midterms suck, but I’m good. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I lie easily. “Just checking in.”
We hang up after she promises to send me the world’s worst selfie later. I send the money, take a shower, and get dressed in jeans, a Henley, and my usual boots. Tossing my jacket over my arm, I step out into the cool evening.
I feel a little steadier. Still tired. Still carrying more than I probably should. But steadier.
Thirty minutes later, I’m walking into the Smokehouse, where the air smells like aged bourbon and slow-cooked pork.
The lights are low, the windows fogged with laughter and the scent of woodsmoke. It’s the only place in town that somehow feels both like a dive bar and a town hall, depending on what hour you walk in.
Mick, the owner and bartender, is leaning halfway over the bar, eyes twinkling.
“You’re late,” he calls. “They already started talking about the girl.”
I frown as I make my way through the tables. “What girl?”
“You know the one.” He taps the side of his nose. “Red hair, green eyes, almost burned down a whole café trying to bake muffins. Legend in the making.”
I blink. “You mean Wren Aldridge?”
Beau’s sitting at our usual booth, nursing a beer with that satisfied lean he gets when he’s just stirred a pot. Simon’s beside him, arms crossed, scrubs exchanged for jeans and a black thermal that still looks like a uniform.
“You know, she looks exactly like her grandmother. Apparently,” Mick continues, “no one ever knew who Grandma Aldridge’s mate was. She just showed up one day pregnant, running that café like a one-woman pack.”
“She was mated,” Simon mutters.
“Who? The grandma?” I ask.
Beau nods. “Doesn’t mean she was bonded.”
I slide into the booth and grab the beer. Beau slides over. “The town’s already dissecting the poor woman’s scent profile?”
“Not just the grandma, Wren too. She nearly burned down her grandmother’s café. Everyone is talking about her and her entire family,” Simon deadpans, arms crossed, beer half-finished.
“She was trying to make coffee,” Beau says, ever the defender, hair still messy from his shift. “Looked like she hadn’t slept in days. That place meant something to her.”
Usually, we’re joking, teasing, letting the edge of our jobs melt into beer and comfort food. But tonight… there’s a tension I can’t name.
“She looked rattled,” I admit. “Like something hit her harder than the smoke.”
Beau leans forward, forearms on the table. “She smells like sugared peaches and firelight. I bet it was her shampoo.”
Simon groans. “You’re poetic now?”
Beau shrugs. “I invited her out. Just for dinner. She turned me down.”
“Smart girl,” Simon mutters.
“Relax,” Beau says. “It wasn’t a move. I just thought she could use a friendly face.”
“She doesn’t want a friendly face, Rhodes. And you and I know that you weren’t chasing her down for friendship, so don’t bother lying.”
“She’s hot!” Beau groans.
“She’s a stranger,” Simon replies.
I sip my beer, watching the two of them. We never compete like this. Never.
Beau’s a flirt. He’s slept his way through half the town, while Simon hasn’t been on a date since Marissa.
And me? Well, I haven’t really been interested in a woman in a long time. But when I touched Wren’s wrist, when I helped her into the ambulance…something clicked.
She’s messed with the air between us.
“Let’s play darts,” Simon says abruptly, standing. “Before Beau starts quoting Byron.”
We follow him to the back wall where the dartboard waits. Mick’s already replaced the darts—fresh points, neon feathers. As always.
I aim. The dart hits wide. My focus is shot.
“She is quite the looker,” Beau insists conversationally.
Simon glares. “Leave her alone.”
Beau sighs. “I’m not stalking her, Simon. I’m just curious.”
“You’re circling.”
“Maybe,” Beau admits, throwing his dart dead center. “But I’m not the only one.”
Simon throws his next, too hard, too fast. It bounces off the board.
We all pause.
Beau lines up his shot. “You ever felt like someone just… slid under your ribcage and stayed there?”
Simon snorts as he adjusts his glasses. “It’s called indigestion.”
Beau grins. “She affected you, too. You’re a doctor. Diagnose yourself.”
“My diagnosis?” Simon’s dart hits the bullseye. “Hormonal nonsense. She’s pretty, she’s new, she’s tragic. Our hindbrains are lighting up like mating season at Fernbridge.”
“She’s not tragic,” I say. “She’s surviving.”
They both glance at me. I wasn’t planning to say that. But it’s true.
“She’s not staying,” Simon adds. “She made that pretty clear.”
I don’t respond. But I know what I felt.
It wasn’t just an attraction. It was… recognition.
The kind of recognition that doesn’t need words.
The tension is real. Palpable. Wren’s stirred something in all of us, and none of us is ready to admit how deep it’s gone. We’re the Rescue Pack—Fox Hollow’s self-proclaimed trio of lifesavers. And now?
We’re acting like lovesick idiots.
After another round, the three of us retreat to the booth again, and Mick swings by with loaded fries. The conversation drifts—back to work, the upcoming Harvest Festival, how Simon refuses to volunteer for the pie judging again after last year’s cinnamon debacle.
But underneath it all, Wren lingers.
Her scent. Her silence. The sharp pride in her posture, even when everything around her was crumbling.
“She’s not like the others,” Beau says, voice low.
“She’s not ours,” Simon replies, but there’s something in his voice—a thread of hesitation.
I stare down at the amber bottle in front of me.
No one’s claimed anything. And yet…
It feels like something has already begun.
By the time we call it a night, Mick’s wiping down the bar. I slap a tip into the jar and wave him off.
“Night, boys,” he calls as we step out into the night air.
Beau whistles low. “Well, that was weird.”
Simon grunts. “Try not thinking with your dick next time.”
I laugh softly, but it’s hollow. Because I’m not sure whether he’s talking to me, Beau… or himself.