Sam claps my shoulder. “Looks good, Carter.”
I nod.
Across the yard, Mel nearly collides with a cooler. I step forward without thinking and catch her wrist. “Watch your step.”
Her pulse jumps under my thumb.
Her eyes lift to mine, and there’s something in there I haven’t seen in a long time. Surprise. Heat. A question she doesn’t voice.
I could tighten my grip. I don’t.
Someone calls my name from the far side of the yard.
I release her slowly.
She pulls her hand back like she felt it too.
The yard fills. Laughter builds. Someone turns the music up loud. The smell of charcoal thickens as Sam lights the grill. Henry steps in close again to help adjust the speaker cord. His shoulder brushes mine. Intentional or not, I can’t tell.
I don’t step away. I don’t lean in either.
Mel laughs at something Mrs. Langley says, and the sound carries over the noise. I look at her, really look at her. The strong line of her jaw. The faint crease between her brows. The way her shirt clings to her back in the heat.
I’m tired of standing on the edge of my own life. Tired of watching other men claim what’s theirs while I measure my steps. If I don’t step forward soon, I might forget how.
Chapter Four
Tom
The wind changes before noon.
It rolls in off the water heavier than expected, pressing against my shirt and lifting the fine hairs along my forearms. I straighten from the rack of fireworks and angle my face into it, measuring the weight of it the way I’ve measured smoke for most of my adult life.
I crouch again and adjust the launch tube a few degrees toward the harbor. The metal is already warm from the sun. I move my hands automatically, checking sandbags, tightening the brace, and tracing the fuse line twice. I’ve learned not to trust “good enough.”
Behind me, gravel shifts.
I know who it is before I turn.
Melanie Carter walks like she carries a town on her shoulders. Even in sandals, her steps are decisive. Her gaze moves constantly as if she’s cataloging every possible point of failure.
Daniel stays slightly behind her, but not passively. He angles his body so he stands between her and the crates without thinking about it. It’s instinctive. Protective in a quiet way most people wouldn’t notice.
They don’t touch. That’s what hits me first.
Couples married as long as they have been usually lean into each other without realizing it. They share weight. They stand hip to hip. These two stand close enough that the space between them feels intentional.
I rise to my feet.
“Wind’s stronger off the water than forecast,” I tell them. “We’re shifting the perimeter back.”
Daniel nods once and moves immediately for the rope line. He trusts my assessment. I file the information away.
Melanie steps closer to the rack, squinting toward the fuse as if proximity will give her control over it. She goes still under my hand, her breath catching sharp before it drags in deeper, slower, the tight line across her shoulders easing as the air leaves her again. The tension I felt when I touched her gives way beneath my palm, not all at once, but enough that I feel the difference in the way her back settles against my hand.
I don’t move.
My fingers spread slightly, adjusting to the shift, holding her where I put her without pressing her further, just enough contact that she feels it. Her weight shifts back a fraction, into the space behind her.
