Me: Be ready in 30. Window.
Then I flipped to Bishop’s thread.
Me: Need a favor. Bring your flashlight and best Oscar-worthy bullshit.
Thirty minutes later, I crouched behind a bush across from her house, heart slamming, eyes fixed on her window glowing soft and warm against the early evening shadows. It feltlike I was in some undercover spy flick—sweaty palms, full adrenaline, breath too loud in my own ears.
Footsteps approached.
Bishop.
He looked absurd—yellow vest over a hoodie, clipboard in one hand, flashlight clipped to his belt like a mall cop with tenure.
I bit back a laugh. Showtime.
He strode up the driveway and knocked twice.
The front door creaked open. Her dad leaned out, irritation already tightening his jaw.
“Can I help you?”
“Good evening, sir,” Bishop said, tone smooth as silk. “Apologies for the hour. I’m with the City of Lake Stevens. We’ve had a sight-line complaint about your eastern fence line. Neighbor says a maple tree is blocking a shared access path.”
Her dad blinked. “At this hour?”
“Afraid so. Code timelines. End-of-quarter backlog.” Bishop shrugged, tapping his clipboard. “Won’t take more than a minute. I’ve got my flashlight if you’d like to take a look.”
From the bush, I waved my arms like an air traffic controller, pointing left—away from Maddison’s window.
Her dad hesitated, then stepped out and let the door fall mostly shut behind him as Bishop led him around the side of the house.
Go time.
The window creaked open.
Maddison, in black leggings and an oversized hoodie, slipped out like she’d done it a dozen times. She crouched in the flowerbed, scanned the lawn, then bolted.
I rose just in time to catch her wrist, and we ran.
Down the sidewalk, adrenaline fizzing, our laughter is hushed but wild like two kids who’d just knocked over a gas station with a water gun.
“That was brilliant,” she whispered breathlessly.
“Told you,” I smirked. “All I need is thirty minutes and a gameplan.”
Later, the lake shimmered under magic hour light, orange melting into violet, the sun slipping behind the trees. The car sat parked near the clearing’s edge, windows fogged, engine off.
Inside, it was heat and breath and tangled limbs. Her leg was draped over my lap, fingers brushing my jaw, every kiss deeper than the last.
“We should run away,” she whispered.
I’d thought about it, not that I’d admit it out loud to her—it would feel too real that way, and things were happening so fast.
“You say that now,” I murmured against her temple, “but you’ve never seen me try to cook.”
She laughed, soft, real, then she stilled in my arms. “My dad’s driving me insane,” she muttered. “He wants to know where I am every second, what I’m doing, who I’m with. I swear, sometimes I think he breathes for me.”
I glanced at her, the corner of my mouth pulling into something between a smirk and a sigh. “Sounds exhausting.”
