Page 42 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

“You’ve got your hands full, man,” Eddie muttered.

Webb let out a breath that was half sigh, half prayer. “Tell me about it.”

I ignored them both and looked down at the weapon in my hand. I lowered it carefully, tucking it close to my side. I wasn’t great with it yet—but I was focused. Ready. Proud, even. And hey, at least I hadn’t named it yet.

But I was definitely thinking about it.

I lowered the pistol slowly, keeping my grip steady and my expression serious—because, for once, I wanted them to see I could be serious and focused. Maybe even a little proud of myself, if I was being honest.

For the briefest moment, I felt it in the air—Webb’s hope. As if he actually believed I might treat this thing like a real weapon and not, say, bedazzle it or try to recruit it into my imaginary raccoon militia.

I could practically hear the internal monologue:She’s maturing. She’s getting it. Maybe she won’t name it.

Poor, sweet, deluded man.

I smiled and held the gun up just a touch. “I’m gonna call her Tinkerbell.”

Webb winced, Eddie's mouth dropped open, and I beamed happily at them.

“She’s small, but she packs attitude,” I noted brightly, giving the gun a gentle pat like it was a beloved kitten. “And if someone tries anything, boom. They get a whole lotta fairy dust.”

Webb closed his eyes and exhaled hard enough to make his soul rattle. “I knew I'd spoken too soon.”

Eddie didn’t even pretend to keep a straight face. “You’re honestly doomed, man.”

I just smirked and tucked Tinkerbell into my waistband like she was the answer to a question only I knew. And somehow, despite all of that, Webb still looked at me like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Chapter Fifteen

Webb

We’d stopped using the campfire a few nights ago, it'd just made sense. The glow carried too far in the dark, and I didn’t want us looking like a beacon in the trees if someone with bad intentions happened to be watching from the ridge line.

Instead, we’d rigged up a little portable gas stove outside, tucked between two fallen logs. I kept it angled behind a makeshift screen of brush and corrugated tin we’d scrounged up from the backup supplies for the cabin. It didn’t throw much light, and I could shut it off in seconds if we heard anything.

Tonight, the skillet was back on it—theskillet—and Gabby was watching it like it might betray her at any second.

“I wiped it with soap,” I reminded her, nudging the steaks around with the tongs. “In front of you to prove it. It's ruined it, but I was hoping you'd quit moaning about it.”

“Wiping is not washing,” she muttered, arms crossed tight over her hoodie. “It’s smearing bacteria into a deeper, more aggressive formation.”

I glanced over my shoulder at her and smirked. “You sound like it’s forming a union.”

“I’m just saying if we start glowing or develop a fever, I’m blaming the pan.”

“You can blame the pan,” I snickered, flipping a perfectly seared steak, “but you’ll be doing it with a full stomach.”

She gave the skillet another disgusted look, then went back to slicing tomatoes into perfect little rounds for the salad she insisted we include to balance out our meals. She wouldn’t stop watching the pan, though. Every few seconds, her eyes flicked to it like she was waiting for it to sprout legs and chase her.

It made me smile. Maybe because it was stupid. Perhaps because it was so perfectly her.

We were sitting just a few feet apart when I finally brought it up.

“Got a call from Marcus and Matty earlier,” I said, keeping my voice even and steady. “Maddox has upped the bounty.”

Her hands paused on the salad tongs, and she didn’t look at me right away.

“How much?” she asked after a long beat.

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