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"People like you?"
His eyes meet mine in the darkness. "People like me," he confirms. "The ones who left and came back changed."
"Is that why you live outside town? At your grandfather's cabin?"
Riley nods, taking a sip of his tea. "Easier. Fewer questions. Fewer expectations."
"Lonelier, though," I say softly.
He doesn't deny it, just looks out at the stars again. "I'm used to it."
"Being used to something doesn't mean it's what you want," I point out. "Or what you deserve."
Riley turns to me then, his expression unreadable in the candlelight. "What about you? What do you deserve, Lucy Mitchell?"
The question catches me off guard. No one has asked me that before—not what I want, which is common enough, but what I deserve. As if he believes I merit something good, something better than what I've had.
"I don't know," I admit honestly. "I've been so focused on surviving—getting through Dad's death, dealing with Emma's anger, escaping my mother's disappointment—that I haven't thought much about what I deserve."
"Maybe you should," he says, his voice low. "Everyone deserves something good in their life."
"Even you?" I ask, searching his face in the flickering light.
A shadow crosses his features. "That's debatable."
"Not to me," I say firmly. "You deserve good things too, Riley. Peace. Connection. Forgiveness—from Josh, yes, but more importantly, from yourself."
He looks startled, as if I've seen too much, understood too clearly the burden of guilt he carries. "You don't know what I've done. What I failed to do."
"I know enough," I counter gently. "I know you were a boy who escaped an abusive home. I know you served your country through four tours of duty. I know you came back to face your demons. And I know you help people, even when there's nothing in it for you."
He looks away, uncomfortable with my assessment. "You've known me for two days. You can't possibly—"
"Sometimes you can learn more about a person in two days than in two years," I interrupt. "Especially when the circumstances strip away the usual social masks."
We fall silent again, sipping our tea and watching as a shooting star streaks across the night sky.
"Make a wish," I say impulsively, nodding toward the fading light trail.
Riley raises an eyebrow. "You believe in that sort of thing?"
"Not really," I admit. "But it can't hurt, right?"
To my surprise, he closes his eyes briefly as if actually making a wish. When he opens them again, his gaze is intense, focused entirely on me.
"What did you wish for?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Can't tell you," he replies, his voice equally soft. "Or it won't come true."
"That's the rule," I agree, suddenly breathless. When did he move closer? Or did I?
We're inches apart now, our empty mugs set aside, the candle between us flickering, casting dancing shadows across his face. I can see every detail of him in this light—the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubble darkening his jaw.
"Lucy," he says, my name a question in his mouth.
I don't know who moves first—him or me—but suddenly the space between us is closing, his hand coming up to cup my cheek, my eyes drifting shut as his breath mingles with mine.
Chapter 8 - Riley
His eyes meet mine in the darkness. "People like me," he confirms. "The ones who left and came back changed."
"Is that why you live outside town? At your grandfather's cabin?"
Riley nods, taking a sip of his tea. "Easier. Fewer questions. Fewer expectations."
"Lonelier, though," I say softly.
He doesn't deny it, just looks out at the stars again. "I'm used to it."
"Being used to something doesn't mean it's what you want," I point out. "Or what you deserve."
Riley turns to me then, his expression unreadable in the candlelight. "What about you? What do you deserve, Lucy Mitchell?"
The question catches me off guard. No one has asked me that before—not what I want, which is common enough, but what I deserve. As if he believes I merit something good, something better than what I've had.
"I don't know," I admit honestly. "I've been so focused on surviving—getting through Dad's death, dealing with Emma's anger, escaping my mother's disappointment—that I haven't thought much about what I deserve."
"Maybe you should," he says, his voice low. "Everyone deserves something good in their life."
"Even you?" I ask, searching his face in the flickering light.
A shadow crosses his features. "That's debatable."
"Not to me," I say firmly. "You deserve good things too, Riley. Peace. Connection. Forgiveness—from Josh, yes, but more importantly, from yourself."
He looks startled, as if I've seen too much, understood too clearly the burden of guilt he carries. "You don't know what I've done. What I failed to do."
"I know enough," I counter gently. "I know you were a boy who escaped an abusive home. I know you served your country through four tours of duty. I know you came back to face your demons. And I know you help people, even when there's nothing in it for you."
He looks away, uncomfortable with my assessment. "You've known me for two days. You can't possibly—"
"Sometimes you can learn more about a person in two days than in two years," I interrupt. "Especially when the circumstances strip away the usual social masks."
We fall silent again, sipping our tea and watching as a shooting star streaks across the night sky.
"Make a wish," I say impulsively, nodding toward the fading light trail.
Riley raises an eyebrow. "You believe in that sort of thing?"
"Not really," I admit. "But it can't hurt, right?"
To my surprise, he closes his eyes briefly as if actually making a wish. When he opens them again, his gaze is intense, focused entirely on me.
"What did you wish for?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Can't tell you," he replies, his voice equally soft. "Or it won't come true."
"That's the rule," I agree, suddenly breathless. When did he move closer? Or did I?
We're inches apart now, our empty mugs set aside, the candle between us flickering, casting dancing shadows across his face. I can see every detail of him in this light—the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubble darkening his jaw.
"Lucy," he says, my name a question in his mouth.
I don't know who moves first—him or me—but suddenly the space between us is closing, his hand coming up to cup my cheek, my eyes drifting shut as his breath mingles with mine.
Chapter 8 - Riley