Page 37 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

“I swear to God,” I clipped, pacing now, “this is how horror stories start. ‘She thought she was safe. But it was the skillet all along.’”

Webb wiped his mouth with a napkin and gave me a smug little smile. “You didn’t mind when you were stuffing your face.”

“Because I thought it was seasoned with flavor, not forbidden science.”

I stopped, turned, and glared at him. “Are you trying to kill us before Maddox’s people even find us?”

“Gabby, I’ve cooked in that skillet for ten years. No one’s died.”

“Yet!”

“You know what adds flavor?” he asked, calm as anything. “Heat, oil, and not scrubbing the soul out of your cookware.”

I gasped. “You’re literally defending the concept of edible danger.”

He took another bite and gave me a wink. “And it’s delicious.”

I flopped back down next to him with a defeated groan, covering my face. “If I get food poisoning and die in my sleep, I’m haunting you. I’m going to clang pots and whispersalmonellaaain your ear every night.”

“You’re insane.”

“You fed me a pan ghost!”

The raccoons chittered nearby, and I was fairly sure even they were judging me. But as I peeked through my fingers and caught Webb still smirking, still chewing, still looking like he’d never once doubted the science of seasoning, I realized something dangerous: It was still worth it.

God help me, I’d risk it all for fried chicken and that smile.

Chapter Fourteen

Webb

I’d slept maybe three hours total. And even that felt generous. Between the subtle creaks of the cabin settling, the faintest rustle of leaves that could’ve been raccoons or men with silencers, and the ever-present pressure of not letting anything happen to Gabby, my brain hadn’t shut off.

And if that wasn’t enough, there was also Gabby herself.

Beautiful, chaotic, unpredictable Gabby, with her wild hair, her weird animal facts, and her tendency to make me laugh when I least expected it—like in the middle of setting a trap that could legitimately injure someone.

I’d kissed her. That kiss had been something that was enough to stick in my head like an echo. Enough to make the silence after it feel deafening.

She'd intrigued me before, in fact, she always had in the periphery. The way she watched people without needing to be seen. The way she slipped in and out of family events, as ifshe didn’t belong, but always remembered your dog’s name and brought the pie.

But now that I knew her? I’d spent days with her in the middle of nowhere, watching her go from terrified to tactical, from overwhelmed to steel spined. She was brave, brilliant, surprisingly sharp with a rifle, and still soft in the moments when no one else would’ve blamed her for breaking.

And yeah, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice her in other ways. The curve of her hip when she bent over to adjust a trip wire. The way her eyes lit up when she had a new deranged idea, like raccoon army recruitment. The cute little snort she tried to hide when she laughed too hard.

I liked her. Really liked her.

And I wasn’t blind, I’d seen the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. Like she was debating whether it was a terrible idea to climb into my lap and find out if I kissed like that all the time. I didn’t not like that, either.

But now I was sleep-deprived, half delirious, and stumbling toward the outhouse with a bladder that had very specific demands and no patience.

I shoved the door open and nearly walked straight into the back wall, trying to blink the world into focus.

That’s when I heard it. Grunting, then a low, rhythmic moaning. I froze, and my brain, already on edge, whirred into DEFCON 1.

Was someone hurt? Was someone here?

Was someone— Wait, that sounded like—Jesus Christ.

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