Brittany
I hear the boat coming before I see him.
The low hum of an engine cutting across water has started to mean something to me. It means the world beyond this floatel still exists. It means I’m not as alone as I feel when the wind kicks up and the dock creaks like it’s thinking about letting go.
I step out onto the porch barefoot, sun-warmed boards under my feet, and shield my eyes.
Oaks stands in the boat like he belongs to the lake, one hand on the tiller, the other steadying a brown paper bag and something neon green that looks suspiciously ridiculous. His cut catches the light. His jaw is set like he’s been grinding his teeth since sunrise.
He kills the engine and lets the boat drift the last few feet. When the hull bumps the dock, he reaches up, hooks the rope around the post with practiced ease, then looks up at me with that same aggravating calm like he didn’t haul me outta bed like a rag doll.
“You alive?” he calls.
“Unfortunately,” I answer.
His mouth tilts. Not quite a smile. Like he’s trying not to show he’s relieved.
When he steps onto the dock, he hands me the paper bag first. It’s warm.
“Peace offering,” he says. “Ol’ ladies cooked for the trip.”
“Not barbeque?” I peer into it carefully. Fried chicken. Corn on the cob. A slice of pie wrapped in foil. The kind of meal that means somebody somewhere decided I was worth feeding.
“Not yet. But I’ll bring you some tomorrow.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Is it poisoned?”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Took real effort to coordinate a group assassination by casserole.”
“Just checking,” I say, because if I don’t tease him I’m gonna say something else. “Wouldn’t put it past your wife.”
His expression shifts at that, just a flicker.
“It’s from Lottie,” he says even. “Not Bethany.”
I nod once, trying to pretend that matters less than it does.
“And this?” I ask, lifting the neon thing.
He actually looks faintly embarrassed. His ears don’t go red or anything dramatic, but the man’s got a tell. His eyes slide away like the dock’s suddenly interesting.
“Apology,” he mutters.
I unfold it.
A bright green T-shirt with a cartoon lake monster, eel shaped with a pig’s nose, grinning across the front like it’s proud of itself.
I stare at him.
“You brought me Lake Monster merch.”
He shrugs. “Figured you could use a laugh.”
I bite back a smile and fail. “It’s hideous.”
“There were worse ones.”
He pulls the rest from the bag. Shorts. A navy bathing suit. And, inexplicably, a stuffed version of the Herrington Lake Monster with beady plastic eyes and a crooked grin.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, and it comes out softer than I mean it to.
“Marina guy swears it’s real,” Oaks says. “Said it sunk a floatel last month.”
I glance out at open water. Gray-blue, glassy, innocent-looking, which is how the worst things always present themselves.
“I’ve heard the stories,” I admit. “My daddy used to tell ’em when I was little. Said there was something long and black under the water that bumped boats just to see who’d scream.”
“You believe it?” he asks.
“No,” I say quick. Then I glance at the water again like my body didn’t get the memo. “But I don’t like not seeing what’s under me.”
He watches me for a long second. “You think I’m trying to scare you?”
“Are you? When haven’t you been?”
He shakes his head once. “I’d rather you be mad than scared.”
That lands too deep. Not romantic. Not sweet. Just true. Like he’s been living by that rule a long damn time.
I set the food on the small table and look back at him. “So what’s the deal? You bringing me lake monsters and fried chicken, or you planning to stay the night?”
His eyes darken slightly, then the guard snaps back into place.
“No.”
The answer is quick. Automatic.
“I’m heading back to camp,” he continues. “Brothers got eyes on this side. Nobody’s coming near this dock without somebody seeing it.”
I fold my arms. “That’s reassuring in a vaguely stalker-adjacent way.”
He ignores that like he ignores anything that would make him feel too human. “How was your day?”
I blink. “You kidnapped me and you’re asking how my day was?”
“It ain’t kidnapping,” he mutters.
“Camping,” I correct.
He nods once like he hates that I’m right. “So?”
I hesitate, because the truth is I did have a good day, and that makes me feel guilty, like I’m betraying my own fear.
“I laid out,” I admit.
His brows draw together. “In what?”
I shrug, pretending it doesn’t matter. Bra and panties, but I don’t tell him that.
His jaw flexes like I punched him.
“You didn’t have a suit,” he says slow.
“I didn’t have clothes at all,” I say, testing him.
A muscle jumps in his cheek. “You were just… out here?”
“In the sun,” I say sweet as pie. “On the dock. Reading a book from in there. Minding my own business.”
He exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to lose his temper on a lake. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?” I tease. “Scared the lake monster was gonna blush?”
His gaze drags over me like he’s picturing it, anyway. Warmth rises up my neck, sharp and unwanted and way too alive for a situation that’s supposed to be survival.
“You trying to kill me?” he mutters.
I grin. “You said you weren’t staying.”
“That don’t mean I ain’t got an imagination.”
I lean back against the porch railing. “Relax. No one saw.”
His eyes flick toward the treeline anyway, instinctive.
“That you know of,” he says.
I roll mine. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless.”
“Reckless is sunbathing nude?” I laugh soft. “You’re a biker, Oaks. Don't be so shocked.”
He steps a little closer, not touching, but close enough that I can smell past the lake water, leather and his soap like the first day I woke up in his bed. Just stands there with that steady, dangerous calm that makes my nerves hum.
“You ain’t got any idea,” he says quiet, “how hard it is to hear you say shit like that and not…”
“Not what?” I press.
His gaze snaps to mine, guarded again. “Don’t start.”
My heart stumbles. I hate how much I like poking at him, how good it feels to make him react when he’s spent weeks acting like he don’t.
“Stay while I eat,” I say, softer now. “Please.”
He studies me, weighing something invisible. Like he’s doing math with consequences.
Then he nods once. “Fine.”
We sit at the little table inside like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I eat fried chicken with my fingers and lick butter from my thumb while he pretends not to notice, which is the funniest damn lie I’ve ever watched somebody commit to.
“This is good,” I say. “Tell Lottie thank you.”
“I will.”
We talk about nothing and everything. The lake.
The heat. The search. He tells me they still haven’t found the missing woman.
I tell him I read half a book and fell asleep in the sun.
He calls me reckless again and I call him a control freak and for a minute it almost feels like we’re just two people sitting in a cabin somewhere far from Hell and Pearly Gates and wives and missing girls.
And then a sharp crack splits the air.
It’s loud. Violent. Not thunder.
Gunshot.
Oaks moves before I even process it. He’s out of his chair and on me in the same breath, knocking me sideways off the chair and onto the floorboards. His body covers mine, solid and heavy, one arm braced over my head, the other pinning me flat.
“Down,” he growls.
My heart is slamming so hard I can’t breathe.
No second shot follows. No shouting. No boat engine revving.
The lake goes eerily quiet.
His hand tightens.
And I realize exactly where it is.
His palm is splayed across my chest, over my breast, like his instincts found me before his brain did.
Heat explodes through me amidst fear.
He freezes.
Slowly, very slowly, he pulls his hand back like it burned him. “Shit,” he mutters, pushing himself up.
He crouches low and moves to the edge of the porch, scanning the water, the treeline, the dock, his whole body wired tight.
I sit up, shaky, pulse roaring in my ears. “Oaks?”
He swears under his breath.
I follow his gaze.
His boat is listing sideways.
Water is pouring in through a jagged hole just above the waterline.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
He jogs down the dock, crouches, inspects it, runs his fingers along splintered fiberglass like he’s reading braille.
“Shot clean through,” he says.
I look around wild. “Do you see anyone?”
“No.”
No other boats. No movement on the water.
Just his boat, slowly filling and sinking like the lake itself is swallowing the evidence.
He climbs back up onto the dock, jaw tight. The sun is starting to dip, shadows stretching long over the water, and the whole world suddenly feels smaller.
“You’re stuck,” I say faint.
He meets my eyes.
“Yeah,” he says quiet.
The weight of it settles between us, thick as the humidity.
He exhales once, looks back at the floatel like he’s deciding how to survive a night with me without crossing lines he built for a reason.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says.
My stomach flips anyway.
The lake stretches out around us, wide and dark and suddenly not as peaceful as it was an hour ago.
And Oaks is stuck here with me.