Page 24 of Carrick
She wasn’t just fire.
She was the tinder and the gasoline.
And me? I was the fool holding the match.
The house fellinto a late-morning lull after the chaos of breakfast. From the kitchen, I caught the rhythmic thud of Deacon’s boots pacing overhead—steady and familiar, the closest thing we had to a metronome. Sully had disappeared down to his basement lab, probably elbow-deep in something both flammable and ill-advised. Niko and Maddy’s laughter still drifted faintly from the backwoods, soft and distant, until even that faded into quiet.
I should’ve gone back to my room. Rested. My body hadn’t stopped reminding me I wasn’t at full strength. But instead, I refilled my coffee and followed a pull I didn’t question—one that led me to the back porch, where instinct said I’d find her.
Bellamy sat on the porch railing, barefoot, a worn flannel wrapped around her shoulders like armor. Her tank top clung to the lines of her ribs, a faint smudge of grease still visible on her collarbone. Her hair was twisted up in a way that looked effortless, like she hadn’t tried. She didn’t turn when I stepped outside.
“You always lurk in the shadows, or am I just lucky?” she asked, her gaze still fixed on the trees.
I leaned against the doorframe and sipped my coffee. “I am a bit of a lurker. Intimidates the squirrels.”
She snorted. “Bet it does.”
The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of cut grass and distant wood smoke—familiar and grounding. I let the silence settle between us before finally saying, “You’re not what I expected.”
She glanced at me over her shoulder. “Let me guess. Quiet, reserved, maybe a little mousey? Tragic past, desperate to be seen?”
I raised a brow. “Are you?”
“No. But people think I am. It’s easier that way.”
There was a practiced coolness in her voice. Measured. Controlled. She spoke like a woman who’d spent years building her own narrative before anyone else could write it for her.
“Hiding in plain sight?” I asked.
She turned fully to face me and shrugged, something both casual and loaded in the movement. “Aren’t we all?”
I crossed the porch slowly, letting my boots hit the planks with quiet finality. She didn’t move, didn’t blink—just watched me with that same stillness I was beginning to recognize as part of her armor. I didn’t touch her. Didn’t reach. Just stood close enough that something in the air shifted between us. It wasn’t quite charged. Not yet. But it was getting there.
“What do you want from me, Bellamy?” I asked quietly.
She tilted her head. “Want, or expect?”
“Start with want.”
She studied me. Really looked. And when she answered, it wasn’t coy. It wasn’t flirtation.
“I want to feel like I’m not running. For once.”
That hit harder than I wanted it to.
I shifted, finally letting my hand rest against the railing beside her thigh. My fingers brushed the edge of her flannel. Her breathing didn’t change, but her gaze dropped to my lips and lingered.
“I don’t run,” I said. “But I do chase.”
She smiled then. Small. Wicked. Sad.
“Good. Because I don’t stop.”
The moment was balanced on a knife’s edge—one breath too close to breaking.
She didn’t move. Neither did I.
Her mouth was there, parted and quiet, not asking—but not denying, either. And every part of me was drawn to it. To her. To the question she wasn’t quite brave enough to ask, and I wasn’t stupid enough to answer.
