Page 159 of Property of Oaks

Another voice responds, softer but not cruel. “That’s Oaks’ woman.”

Not pity. Not accusation. Just fact, delivered like it’s settled, like it’s no longer up for debate, and my pulse slows instead of spikes because recognition feels different than judgment, even in a town that loves to confuse the two.

The waitress sets coffee in front of me without hesitation, no side-eye, no tightening in her shoulders.

“On the house,” she says quietly.

I nod, unsure what to do with that kind of kindness when I’m still learning how to live inside my own skin again.

The door opens, and I don’t have to look to know it’s him. When Oaks walks in, the vibe shifts, and it ain’t just because some people are still scared of him. It's more like everyone unconsciously adjusts themselves, as if they're checking their reflection to see where they stand.

He scans the room once, finds me, and his expression softens in a way he used to keep locked behind duty. He doesn’t make a show of it, doesn’t glare at anybody, doesn’t posture, because he doesn’t have to. He walks over, leans down, and presses a kiss to my forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he’s done it a hundred times and intends to do it a hundred more.

“How’s the pie today?” he asks.

“Burned,” I reply.

“Good,” he says, deadpan, and it makes me smile despite myself.

He slides into the booth across from me like we’ve been doing this our whole lives, like this is settled.

At the counter, someone mentions the lake again, mentions how quiet it’s been lately, mentions the old stories of something big under the surface, because Hell can’t let a mystery die without feeding it. The monster rumors haven’t stopped. Pearly Gates still has sins to answer for. The club still operates in gray spaces most people pretend not to see.

But when Oaks reaches across the table and takes my hand, and his thumb brushes over the ring he placed there, the promise, there ain’t a thing uncertain about it.

No hiding. No shame. No fracture.

There's no need for a show. There's no need for apologies.

We’re solid.

And in Hell, Kentucky, that’s the closest thing to peace I may ever get.