Page 53 of From the Wreckage

Everett

Lily’s words gnaw at me long after they spilled from Bri’s lips. I can see the way they eat at her, the panic written all over her face. And damn it, part of me wants to storm into that bookstore and tell Lily she doesn’t know a damn thing about us.

But she’s not wrong. People notice. They always notice.

I should put distance between us before it spreads. Before her dad hears a word of it. I should protect her the only way I know how.

But when Bri looks at me, her eyes wide and shining, like I’m worth holding onto? I can’t walk away.

She lingers by the porch steps, her hair catching the afternoon light, and I know I should send her home. Instead, I hear myself mutter, “Wait here.”

Her brows lift as I disappear inside, grabbing what little I have to offer—half a loaf of bread, a pack of deli meat, a bag of chips, and two beers pulled from the back of the fridge. Not exactly gourmet, but it’s something.

When I return, she’s sitting on the steps, her chin in her hands. I set the haul down on an old blanket I drag across the grass. “Picnic,” I say gruffly.

Her lips twitch, fighting a smile. “This is a picnic?”

I shrug. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not exactly Martha Stewart.”

She laughs—a soft, bright sound that loosens something in my chest. She helps me unwrap the bread, her fingers brushing mine as she builds a lopsided sandwich.

We eat on the blanket with the sun slanting through the trees, crumbs dotting the fabric between us.

She steals most of the chips, and I let her, because watching her crunch them with that smug grin is better than tasting them myself.

It shouldn’t feel so easy and normal. But sitting here with her knees bumping mine every time she shifts, and her eyes glowing like she belongs in every corner of my life, I almost forget the world beyond this cabin at the lake.

When the food is gone, she stretches out on her back, staring up through the canopy of leaves. “You know,” she murmurs, “this might be my favorite kind of picnic.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. No fancy plates. No polite small talk. Just… this.” She turns her head, her hazel eyes locking with mine. “Just you.”

The words tear me open. I roll onto my side, propping my head on my hand, drinking her in like I’ll never get enough. “Careful, angel. Keep talking like that, and I’ll never let you go.”

Her smile is soft, trembling at the edges, but she doesn’t look away. “Maybe that’s the point.”

I kiss her, slow and deep, the taste of her chasing away the ghosts for one fragile moment.

And for the first time all day, I let myself breathe.