I remember the smell first. The smell of fear and garbage cooking in the sun. Then the sound. The eerie quiet of the first night, broken by the sudden, symphonic crash of a storefront window being smashed. Then another. And another. I was on patrol, my partner and I, our faces slick with sweat, the weight of our gear feeling like a tomb.

  We were dispatched to a looting call at a pharmacy on the Lower East Side. By the time we got there, it wasn’t a looting anymore. It was a frenzy. The street was a war zone. People weren’t just stealing; they were fighting. Over insulin, over baby formula, over bags of ice. A rumor had spread, a toxic whisper on the wind that the emergency services were overwhelmed, that no one was coming to help. And in that vacuum of information, fear took over.

  I remember the sight of a police car, overturned and burning, its sirens wailing a mournful, distorted song into the smoke-filled sky. I remember the sound of a gunshot, close, too close, and the way my training had kicked in, my body moving on pure instinct. I remember pulling a terrified young woman out of the path of a charging crowd, her face streaked with tears and soot. I remember the sheer, animal panic in people’s eyes.

  It wasn’t malice. It was desperation. It was the primal, terrifying realization that the rules had suddenly ceased to exist, and it was every person for themselves. The city had become a jungle, and we were all just animals trying to survive the night.

  I shake my head, trying to dislodge the images, the sounds, the smell of it all. I’m back in my quiet office, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. But the memory clings to me like smoke.

  This is a small town, not a concrete jungle of eight million people. Everyone knows everyone. They look out for each other. They brought casseroles to the firehouse. They volunteered for cleanup crews. They’re a community.

  They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t tear their own town apart over a shortage of medication. They wouldn’t riot in the streets.

  Right?

  I stare at the map, at the neat, ordered grid of streets and houses. But now, all I can see is the potential for everything to go wrong. The veneer of civilization is thinner than people think. It’s a fragile, delicate thing, held together by the belief that the lights will stay on, that the shelves will be stocked, that help will come when you call for it. Take away one of those pillars, and the whole structure can come crashing down.

  I know what fear can do to people. I’ve seen it up close. I’ve seen the rage and the panic. And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that Driftwood Cove is not immune. They’re just people. And when people get scared enough, they’re capable of anything.

  My job isn’t just to find a shipment of suppressants. It’s to stop this town from becoming another ghost in my memory. It’s to stop the rampage before it even begins.

  Liam

  The key turns in the lock with a sound that’s both familiar and foreign. It’s my key, the one I’ve used a hundred times, but as I push the door open to Millie’s apartment, it feels like I’m trespassing.

  The air inside is warm, scented with Millie’s vanilla lotion, and mixed with the low, electric hum of a television. And then I hear it. Her laugh, followed by Maddox’s low chuckle. A tight knot forms in my stomach. I’m not ready for this. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for this.

  I step inside, and the first thing to greet me is a flash of gray fur. Nimbus winds around my ankle. He purrs loudly.

  I bend down to scratch his head, his warmth a small, welcome comfort.

  “Hey, buddy,” I murmur.

  Millie looks up from the couch, her eyes widening slightly. She’s sitting cross-legged, a controller in her hands, her hair a messy halo around her face. Maddox is beside her, leaning forward, his own controller in hand, his attention fixed on the screen where some kind of cartoonish battle is taking place. He glances at me.

  “Liam,” Millie says, her voice soft. “Hey. We didn’t think you’d be back until later.”

  “The Cocoa Nook was slow,” I say, holding up the cardboard tray in my hands. It feels like a flimsy peace offering. “Brought you guys hot chocolates. And some of the day-old pastries Mom was going to toss.”

  Maddox sets his controller down. “You’re a lifesaver, man.” He stands up, stretching, and the movement is a little too casual, a little too practiced. He’s giving me an out. He’s giving us space.

  “Yeah, well, someone’s got to keep you two fueled,” I say, trying for a light tone that doesn’t quite land. I set the tray on the coffee table, the clink of the cups loud in the quiet room.

  “I should get going,” Maddox says, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair. “I’m picking up the evening shift at the station.”

  Millie’s face falls, just a fraction. “Oh. Okay.”

  He walks over to her, and I watch as he leans down and presses a soft kiss to her cheek. It’s a simple gesture, one I’ve seen a hundred times, but now it feels loaded. It feels like something more.

  “Be careful,” she tells him, her voice quiet.

  “Mills,” he says, a world of unspoken meaning in that one word.

  “I just worry,” she whispers back.

  I stand there, feeling like a third wheel in my own life. I watch them, this easy intimacy they’ve fallen into, and a bitter taste fills my mouth.

  Maddox turns to me, his expression neutral. “See you later, Liam.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Later.”

  The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that descends is heavy, thick with everything that’s been left unsaid. Millie is still on the couch. She doesn’t look at me.

  I walk over and sit on the armchair opposite her, the distance feeling like a chasm. “What was that?” I ask, and it comes out rougher than I intended.

  “Nothing,” she says. “He’s just… been taking care of me. I worry.”

  “Can I… can I sit?” I ask, gesturing to the empty space on the couch beside her.

  She nods, a small, jerky motion.

  I move from the chair to the couch, the cushions dipping under my weight. We’re close now, our knees almost touching. I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, a current that passes between us, electric and dangerous.

  “Can we just talk about this?” I ask. “Once and for all. No more running. No more hiding.”

  She finally looks at me, her green eyes wide and wary. “Okay.”

  I take a breath, the words I’ve been holding in for days threatening to spill out. “I was hurt, Millie. When I found out you slept with someone else… it gutted me. I felt like a fool. I was living here, right under your nose, and you went out and found a stranger. It felt like… it felt like you were choosing someone else over me. Over us.”

  Her lip begins to tremble, and her eyes well up with tears. “Liam…”

  “But then I saw your face,” I continue, my voice cracking. “When you thought I was with Jessica. I saw the look in your eyes. And I knew. I knew you felt it too. That twisting in your gut, that feeling like the world was ending. That’s how I felt, Mills. That’s how I feel every single time I think about you with him.”

  A single tear escapes and traces a path down her cheek. “Of course I felt it,” she whispers. “Of course it hurt. I love you, Liam.”

  The words hang in the air between us, a raw, beautiful, and terrible truth.

  “That’s the problem,” she says, her voice breaking. “Don’t you see? That’s the whole problem. I love you so much, and that’s why I can’t… I can’t do this.”

  “Why not?” I ask, my heart pounding. “If we love each other, why can’t we just… be together?”

  “Because one fight,” she says, her voice rising with a desperation that cuts me to the core. “One stupid, horrible fight, and you left. You packed a bag and you left. So you see why I can’t risk this? If we’re just friends and we fight, we have a foundation to come back to. But if we’re more… if we’re everything… and you leave like that again? It wouldn’t just break my heart, Liam. It would destroy me.”

  And there it is. The brutal, undeniable truth. I look at her, at her tear-streaked face and her trembling lip, and all I can see is the pain I caused. All my pride, all my hurt, it all just dissolves into a sea of regret.

  “I fucked up,” I say, the words a raw confession. “Oh, God, Mills. I fucked up so bad.”

  I reach for her, pulling her across the small space between us and into my lap. She comes willingly, her body collapsing against mine, her face buried in the crook of my neck. I wrap my arms around her, holding her as tight as I can, trying to piece together the broken parts I’m responsible for shattering.

  “Baby,” I whisper into her hair, the word a familiar comfort. “I am so, so sorry.”

  She cries against my shoulder, her body shaking with the force of her sobs, and I just hold her, rocking her gently. I press my lips to her hair, breathing in her scent, trying to memorize this feeling, this moment of pure, unadulterated connection.

  “We need to figure out what to do,” I say. “You and me. We need to figure this out.”

  She pulls back slightly, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. “Yeah,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “I don’t know.”

  “I know,” I say, brushing a stray tear from her cheek with my thumb. “But we’ll figure it out together. I promise.”

  “I missed you,” she whispers, the words muffled against my shoulder. They’re small, fragile things, but they land with the force of a punch, stealing the air from my lungs. I hold her tighter, burying my face in the soft cascade of her hair, breathing in the scent that has been my solace and my torment for years.

  “I missed you too, Mills,” I murmur. “So much.”

  It’s an understatement. It feels like I’ve been walking around with a limb missing, the constant, dull ache of her absence, even when she was right there in front of me.

  A soft weight settles on my leg, and I look down to see Nimbus has claimed the remaining space in my lap. He begins to knead my thigh with his paws, his purr a loud, rumbling engine that vibrates through both of us.

  A real, genuine smile touches Millie’s lips as she watches him, her eyes still watery but now filled with a soft light. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in weeks.

  She shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to look at me. “Do you… do you have to head to Maddox’s?” The question is hesitant, laced with a fear she tries to hide.

  “No,” I say firmly. “I’m not going anywhere.” A boldness I didn’t know I possessed surges through me. “In fact,” I continue, a slow grin spreading across my face, “how about I teach you this game? I always beat Maddox anyway. It’s about time I had a real challenge.”

  A laugh escapes her, a bright, clear sound that chases away the last of the shadows in the room. “You’re on.”

  We stay like that for a while longer, a tangle of limbs and contented cat, before she says, “You’ll stay for dinner, right?”

  “I would love to,” I say. “Does that frozen lasagna I bought last month still exist in the depths of your freezer?”

  Her eyes light up. “Oh my god, I completely forgot about that!” She grins, and it’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Yes. It’s definitely still there.”

  We untangle ourselves from the couch and Nimbus, and walk toward her kitchen. It feels right, natural, the way we move around each other in the small space. I pull the brick of frozen pasta from the freezer while she finds a knife to cut the plastic. I pop it in the oven, setting the timer with a click.

  We go back to the living room and pick up the controllers. The game is some ridiculous cartoon battle royale, and for the next hour, we lose ourselves in it. I watch her more than I watch the screen.

  I watch the way her nose scrunches when she’s concentrating, the way she throws her head back and laughs when she manages to land a lucky shot on me. I love her. God, I love her so much it’s a physical ache in my chest.

  But I’ve been so miserable since we broke things off, since that night, and she just… wouldn’t understand. She sees her own fear, the fear of losing a friend, but she doesn’t see the hollow, echoing space I’ve been living in, the space where a future with her was supposed to go.

  After a while, Nimbus meows at our feet, a not-so-subtle reminder that it’s dinner time for him too. We pause the game, and Millie scoops his food into his bowl while I refill his water. It’s another small, domestic act that feels like coming home.

  “I should probably take a shower before we eat,” I say, suddenly aware of the grime of the day on my skin.

  “Of course,” she says, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Let me just grab you a towel.”

  She disappears down the hall, and I follow her toward the bathroom. The door is ajar, and I push it open. The room is small, filled with her scent—vanilla and something floral, like the body wash she uses. And then I see it. Dangling from a small hook on the back of the door is a scrap of black lace.

  Her thong.

  I freeze. My heart hammers against my ribs. I know I should look away. I should turn around and walk out and pretend I never saw it. But I don’t. I reach out, my fingers tracing the delicate fabric. It’s soft, impossibly so. I hate myself in this moment. I hate myself for this invasive, pathetic longing. Why can’t I be worth the risk? Why can’t I be the one she trusts enough to let in all the way?

  I snatch my hand back as if I’ve been burned. I turn on the shower, the sound of the water a welcome distraction. I strip off my clothes and step under the hot spray, letting it wash away the grime, the sweat, and the self-loathing.

  I use her citrus-scented shampoo, the smell filling the steamy air and wrapping around me. When I’m done, I grab the fluffy pink towel she left for me and dry off, wrapping it securely around my waist.

  I walk out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam following me, and find her standing by her closet, rifling through a drawer.

  “I thought you could wear some of your old stuff,” she says, not looking at me. She pulls out a pair of gray sweatpants, worn soft at the knees, and a faded black T-shirt. “I, uh, I never got around to getting rid of them.”

  “Thanks, Mills.”

  She turns and walks toward me, holding out the clothes. Our hands brush as she passes them to me, and a sharp, undeniable spark shoots up my arm. It’s the same current that’s always flowed between us. Does she not feel that?

  Of course she has to. I see it in the way her eyes widen for a fraction of a second, the way her breath catches.

  She clears her throat, taking a small step back. “I’ll, uh, I’ll give you a minute to get dressed,” she says, her voice a little too high.

  “Okay,” I manage to say.

  She turns and practically flees the room, leaving me standing there, holding a piece of our past in my hands.

  Millie

  He walks out of my bedroom, and my heart does a stupid, painful lurch. He’s wearing the old gray sweats I bought for him years ago, and a faded black T-shirt that’s stretched tight across his chest and shoulders.

  He is so hot. It’s an unfair, cosmic joke.

  After days of misery, of missing him so much it felt like a physical part of me was gone, he just walks back into my life looking like this, and I’m supposed to be rational. I’m supposed to be just his friend.

  My mind is a tangled, chaotic mess. I like him. God, I like him so much it hurts to breathe. But there’s also Maddox.

  The memory of his hands on my skin, the gentle way he cared for me today, the raw pain in his eyes when he showed me his bruises. I’ve liked Maddox, too. I’ve never acted on it, burying it under layers of friendship and the fear of ruining everything.

  And then there’s Knox. The sheriff. The stranger. My only safe option—a man who is completely, irrevocably off-limits. A man whose presence in this town is a complication I can’t even begin to unravel.

  Oh fuck!

  A wave of warmth washes over me, starting in my chest and spreading downwards. It’s not just the apartment’s heating. It’s a sudden, dizzying rush of awareness, of want, and it’s directed squarely at the man standing in my living room.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a loud ding from the kitchen. The oven timer. I practically run in that direction, needing a task, a distraction. I rummage through a drawer, looking for the oven mitts I know are in here somewhere.

  “I got it,” Liam says, his voice close behind me. He reaches past me, his arm brushing against mine, and pulls the lasagna from the oven with his bare hands, like the heat is nothing. He sets the hot dish on the stovetop and turns to me, a grin spreading across his face. “Smells fucking incredible.”

  I nod, my throat suddenly dry. But I’m not talking about the lasagna. He smells like me. He’s used my shower, and my scent is all over him. It’s making me feel a little dizzy, a possessive, primal thrill that I have no right to feel.

  It’s just like when Maddox came in here smelling like Liam, and my whole world tilted on its axis. They need to stop doing that. This cross-contamination of scents is going to drive me insane.

  “You okay?” he asks, his voice softening. He touches my arm, his fingers warm against my skin. “You look a little flushed.”

  I nod, pulling away slightly. “I’m fine. Just hungry.”

  “Let’s eat,” he agrees.

  We eat at the small table in the corner, the conversation flowing easier than I expected. We talk about nothing and everything—the ridiculous plot of the video game, the latest gossip from the firehouse, Maren’s new obsession with sourdough bread. It’s comfortable. It’s us. After dinner, we do the dishes together, a silent, synchronized dance of washing and drying that feels more intimate than it should.

  When we’re done, he lets out a contented sigh.

  “Can I… can I ask for something?” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

 

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