Chapter 8
EIGHT
CHASE
Town puts me on edge. It always has. Too many blind corners. Too many reflections in windows. Too many places for someone to disappear and reappear with bad intentions. Out here, in the open, I can see threats coming. In Timber Creek, threats blend in with flannel and friendly smiles.
Which means my attention stays on a swivel. But it keeps drifting back to her anyway.
Fiona walks a step ahead of me on the sidewalk, shoes clicking against the brick like she’s announcing her presence to the whole world.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, then lets it fall again, then does it again like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
It’s nervous energy. Or maybe it’s just a habit.
Either way, I notice.
I notice the way she scans storefront windows, checking her reflection and what’s behind her. The way she pauses before stepping into a shop, like she’s bracing herself. And I notice the way she relaxes just a fraction when she realizes I’m right there.
“Do you always walk like you’re clearing a room?” she asks, glancing back at me with a half-smile.
“Habit.”
“From the war,” she says, not asking.
“From life,” I answer, which is the closest I get to admitting anything real.
She studies me for a second, then nods like she understands more than she’s letting on.
We hit the drugstore first. She grabs a basket and starts tossing things in—toothbrush, face wash, deodorant, shampoo, conditioner. Normal stuff. Ordinary stuff. The kind of stuff people buy when their life isn’t on fire.
She holds up a bright pink loofah. “This is non-negotiable.”
“I wasn’t going to negotiate,” I say.
She smiles, then catches herself and looks away, tucking her hair behind her ear again.
There it is.
I look away too. Because staring feels dangerous.
At the checkout, I subtly shift so I can see the door and the windows at the same time. I clock everyone who walks in. The guy in the Carhartt jacket. The teenage couple. The older woman with a cart full of cleaning supplies.
No one looks wrong.
That doesn’t mean anything.
Outside, Fiona exhales like she didn’t realize she was holding her breath.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “Just… being in public feels weird.”
“Normal,” I tell her. “Your brain’s still in survival mode.”
She nods slowly. “Does it ever stop?”
I think about the nights I still wake up staring at the ceiling. The way I still map exits in every room. The way quiet sometimes feels louder than gunfire. “Gets quieter,” I say. “That’s something.”
She seems to accept that.
We hit the grocery store next. She grabs a cart like she’s reclaiming something. I follow her down the aisles, still watching reflections, still tracking movement.
She pauses in front of the spice rack. “Okay, serious question. What do you actually eat?”
“Food,” I say.
She squints. “Do you cook?”
“I can.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I smirk. “I do. I’m just not emotionally attached to it.”
She laughs. A real laugh. It does something stupid to my chest.
“I’ll cook tonight,” I hear myself say. “My famous steak dinner.”
“Famous, huh?”
“Among very selective audiences.”
She grins. “I’m intrigued.”
We load the cart with steaks, potatoes, asparagus, and—at her insistence—something called “fancy butter” that looks like it belongs in a museum.
While she debates between two kinds of chocolate, my phone buzzes. I glance down.
HAVEN 7 GROUP:
Gavin: Status?
Silas: Any issues in town?
Rafe: Quiet is good. Quiet stays good.
I type back.
Me: All good. Errands and diner. No tails. Heading back soon.
Almost immediately, a reply pops up.
Boyd: Copy.
Thorne: Keep eyes up.
Gavin: Bring her home safe.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and look up to find Fiona watching me.
“Work stuff?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She nods. “Thank you. For… all of this.”
I meet her gaze. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“But I want to.” Something in her expression makes me want to say more. Want to tell her things I don’t usually tell anyone.
About how I didn’t feel useful after the war. How Haven 7 gave me a purpose again. How protecting people feels like the only thing that makes sense sometimes.
Instead, I say, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”
Her throat bobs, and she looks away. “I’m still getting used to that idea.”
We pay and head back to the truck. I load the bags, then open her door for her. She gives me a look.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just… you’re very gentlemanly for a guy who looks like he could fight a bear.”
“I’d lose to the bear.”
“Lies.”
The drive back is quieter. Comfortable. The sun is starting to dip, painting the mountains gold. When we pull up to my cabin, she looks… relieved.
“Go shower,” I tell her. “I’ll start dinner.”
She hesitates. “You sure?”
“Go,” I say. “You’ll feel better.”
She smiles softly. “Okay. And… Chase?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad it’s you.”
So am I.
I watch her disappear inside, then grab the groceries and follow, already planning the meal—and wondering when exactly this stopped feeling like an assignment and started feeling like something I don’t want to end.