Page 67 of When the Smoke Clears

The ride back is quiet, but it isn’t the same silence as earlier. It’s fuller. Heavy with everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t.

At the cabin, I walk her to the bedroom door. She turns to me, fingers catching the hem of my T-shirt for half a heartbeat before she lets go.

“Goodnight, Luke,” she says softly.

“Goodnight, Isla.”

She closes the door with a soft click. I stay there, palm pressed flat to the wood, listening. No muffled crying. No movement either. I picture her collapsed on the bed, finally too exhausted to fight sleep.

After a few minutes, I step away.

In my room, I strip down, sit on the edge of the mattress, and finally let the day settle in my bones. The pillow smells of laundry detergent and pine. The whole house smells like her shampoo now, too. Coconut, citrus, and trouble.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

GABE: My contact is delayed. This is going to take longer than I thought. Expect several hours.

GABE: I’m sorry.

LUKE: It’s alright. Thanks for the update.

I set the phone down and cross to the window. The forest looms beyond the glass—dark, dense, whispering with things unseen. Somewhere out there is someone who thinks they can scare Isla into running again.

I rest my palm against the cold glass and look back down the hallway, toward the closed bedroom door.

“As long as I’m breathing,” I murmur to the trees and the shadows and whoever might be listening, “they’re going to have to go through me first.”

CHAPTER 16

ISLA

A shadow shifts in the corner of the living room. I freeze, squinting into the darkness.

“Oh my God.”

My body spins toward the door, fight-or-flight hitting straight into flight, until a lamp clicks on.

Luke sits in the armchair, one ankle resting casually over his knee like he’s been there for hours. His mouth curves at one corner.

“Sorry if I scared you.”

I press a hand to my chest, feeling every wild thud beneath my palm. “What were you doing out here in the dark?”

“Just thinking.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Have you heard from Gabe?”

He shakes his head once. “He texted. Running late.”

I exhale, my shoulders sinking. “I just wanted a glass of water.”

“I’ll get it.”

He rises from the chair in one slow, fluid movement and walks past me. His arm brushes mine—light, accidental, electrifying. Something low in my stomach flips.

“I can get water myself,” I mutter, mostly because admitting I like him taking care of me feels like stepping off a cliff.

He fills a glass and turns, handing it to me. His gaze snags mine and holds, steady and too aware.