Page 24 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

He chuckled under his breath. “Guess I’ve got good timing with buckets.”

I smiled at that, but it didn’t quite reach all the way. My chest was tight again, but it wasn't with panic or fear this time, it was something raw.

I poked the fire with a stick. “I think I wanted to be seen that way, too. Collected and in control, but I’m not.”

Webb stayed quiet. Not in a judgmental way, just in a present way, like he was giving me space to decide if I really wanted to go there. So, I did.

“I started the PI stuff as a joke,” I admitted, my voice low. “I didn’t even take the first job seriously. I figured it’d be a few pictures, a couple hours of pretending that I knew what I was doing, and I’d use the money to pay off my car.”

He was still listening, I could feel it.

“But then I got good at it, not because I was trained or anything, but because I noticed things. I kept my head down, so people don’t see someone like me as a threat. I've always been quiet and awkward and pretty much background noise.” I paused. “I made that work for me.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood what I meant, but shocked me by saying, “You’re not background noise.”

I swallowed hard. That shouldn’t have meant so much, but it did.

“I thought I had it under control,” I admitted. “Even with Maddox. Even when it started getting sketchy. But that night—when they tried to get in—” I stopped as my hands clenched in my lap, and I had to breathe for a second before continuing. “I’ve never felt so small. Not even in high school, when I wore headgear and a training bra at the same time.”

That earned a soft laugh from him, but it wasn't mocking. Just... gentle.

“I had every lock on that house. Every camera, every plan,” I said with a groan. “And none of it mattered because they had more power and more people. I was just one woman with a camera and a file. If it hadn't been for the paranoid-special door, they'd have gotten me.”

“You were smart enough to run,” Webb pointed out. “That’s more than most people would’ve done.”

“I don’t feel smart. I feel like a walking target in these discount sneakers you got me at the gas station with a sunburn that still stings when I breathe.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “That might be the most relatable sentence I’ve ever heard.”

I laughed, really laughed. The kind that cracked something open in my chest and let some of the fear out.

It stopped as I realized I was safe to ask him the biggest question I had. “Do you think I’m gonna get through this?”

Webb didn’t hesitate. “I think you already are.”

It took my breath away for a moment. He wasn’t trying to make me feel better. He wasn’t sugarcoating it. It was just what Webb saw was the truth, like he’d planted it in the dirt between us and dared the world to argue. And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.

The fire burned low as the night curled in around us. But I wasn’t cold, and I wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

The fire had burned down to soft orange coals, just a warm glow under the stars. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. Not because we were out of words but because the silence felt good. Like the kind that builds between people who are no longer strangers to each other’s shadows.

Finally, Webb stood, brushing off his hands. “Come on, before the mosquitos get bold.”

I nodded, stretching out my legs with a groan and wincing slightly as I stood.

Webb noticed. “Still sore?”

“I’m living in a constant state of burned flesh and emotional instability,” I said. “So yeah, a little.”

His brow furrowed, just a flicker, but he didn’t say anything. He just waited while I followed him toward the cabin, each step slow but comfortable in the hush of the night.

Inside, the warmth from earlier still lingered, mixed with the smell of firewood, faint soap, and whatever weird forest scent had permanently infused everything they had in the place.

I flopped into the chair near the fireplace with a sigh. “We should’ve made s’mores.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed, flicking on the small lamp in the corner. The light was soft and golden, making the wood-paneled walls look a little less haunted.

He grabbed the first aid kit off the shelf, the same one I’d seen him use when he scraped his knuckles splitting wood this morning and walked over.

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