Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Dust Swirls in Strange Light

Mollie’s father died alone, surrounded by empty Jack and Coke bottles, the television still humming some late-night conspiracy show. By the time they found him—five days too late—aliens blinked on the screen, grainy footage of men in suits whispering about government lies. Mollie wondered what had been playing when it happened. Did he go out to the history of the world, to the wars of men? Or was it something wilder, something about celestial bodies and things unknown?

She didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was this: he died alone. A half-empty Jack and Coke beside him. A crumpled bag of Funyuns. A shotgun, loaded and spent, clutched in his hand.

The shipyard manager told her all of this over the phone, his voice thick with something she couldn’t place—pity, maybe, or just exhaustion. It had been mid-afternoon when the unknown number pulled her from sleep. The man on the other end asked if she was Mollie Cooper.

Then, blunt as anything: Your father’s dead. Shot himself.

She hadn’t caught his name. Later, she would remember his voice: gruff, oil-stained, like the stink of diesel clinging to work boots. He explained that Rick Cooper disappearing for a few days wasn’t all that unusual—he skipped work often, probably nursing some hangover—but five days was different. The trailer had been unlocked. The air, when he cracked the door open, had been thick with something stale, something awful. And there was the blood, of course. The mess of it on the wall.

The man said he knew Rick had a daughter. Had mentioned her, vaguely, but never said much. Still, he thought it was right to call. Thought she ought to know. He had a box, too, a small one, filled with whatever scraps of a life her father had left behind. Thought maybe you’d want it, he said.

Now, Mollie sat on the floor, cross-legged on the faded rug of her mother’s home. The box lay open in front of her. Loose change. A lighter. A pocket knife with a worn handle. At the very bottom, a photograph: a baby with chubby cheeks, mid-laugh, frozen in time. Someone—her father, maybe—had scrawled her name in the corner, the ink smudged. There was a tiny spray of blood on the glass, dried and dark.

He had kept it. Through everything, he had kept it.

Mollie woke to the sound of the house shifting around her. A groan of old wood, a whisper of wind sneaking through gaps in the walls. It took her a moment to remember where she was.

The couch was lumpy, the blanket thin. Her mouth tasted stale, her head pounded with the aftershocks of the night before. Not the worst hangover she’d ever had, but bad enough.

She sat up slowly, blinking against the watery light filtering through a dusty curtain. The air smelled like mildew, like dust and something gone unused for too long. She could hear birds outside, the distant chatter of squirrels. The walls, rough-hewn pine, were lined with cobwebs, and a single chair sat in the corner, its stuffing spilling out like old guts.

Pelican Town. Her grandfather’s farm.

She rubbed at her temples, trying to sort the last twenty-four hours into something coherent. First: getting fired from the diner. A shit job, anyway. Then, a bar downtown, drinking alone, someone laughing and singing her happy birthday. Tequila shots. A bump of something up her nose, straight to her brain, unfamiliar but sharp. A stranger’s hands, his mouth at her neck. Waking up alone in a bed that wasn’t hers. Then, home. The TV still on. Her mother, passed out in the same spot as always, vomit staining the couch, her shirt. Checking for a pulse, heart hammering, bile in her throat. The smell of it, sharp and rancid. The way her mother’s face looked—drawn, older than she was. Like she had given up halfway through something important.

Halfway through cleaning, halfway through thinking, halfway through caring, Mollie had stopped. Had wiped her hands on her jeans, walked to her mother’s purse, and grabbed what she could. Just enough. Then she’d packed a bag and caught the first bus out of the city.

And now she was here.

Mollie swung her legs off the couch and stood, wincing as pain lanced through her skull. She flicked a light switch, out of habit. Nothing. Of course not.

Then—a sound. Footsteps on the porch. The jingle of keys, someone whistling. She froze.

The door creaked open, spilling bright morning light into the room. Mollie lifted a hand to shield her eyes. The man in the doorway—a stranger—stumbled back, looking just as startled as she was.

“Good god, you gave me a fright,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. Then he straightened, quickly recovering. “I—” He blinked at her. “I’m sorry, Miss, but this is private property.”

Mollie blinked back. “Yeah,” she said, her voice rough with disuse. “I own it.”

The man squinted at her, then let out a sharp breath, something between relief and mild irritation. “Mollie Cooper?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Well, it’s about time.”

Mollie forced a weak smile. “Yeah, I guess it’s been a while.”

The man stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, eyes scanning the space like he was taking inventory. “Mayor Lewis,” he said, offering a quick, perfunctory handshake. “Been looking after the place. Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

Mollie glanced around. “Didn’t think I would either.”

Lewis hummed, unimpressed. “Fred always wanted this place to be yours. We figured after three years, you’d lost interest.” He gestured vaguely. “Farm’s a mess, but that’s no surprise. Whole town’s been wondering what would happen to it.”

Mollie pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek. She had barely planned on staying, let alone fixing anything.

“Well, you’re here now. Fields need work. Greenhouse is shot. You plan on getting your hands dirty?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer that, so she didn’t. Just nodded, once.

Lewis smirked, not convinced. “I’ll have to turn the water back on. Should be running in about an hour,” he said. Then, after an obvious pause, “Welcome to Pelican Town.”

She nodded again. “Thanks.”

He turned to go, then hesitated. “Electricity’s off?”

Mollie sighed. “Yeah.”

Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. “Breaker’s out back. Should’ve figured.” He gave her another once-over before stepping onto the porch. “Good luck, Miss Cooper.” The way he said it didn’t sound like he thought she’d last.

Then he was gone.

Mollie let out a slow breath and pulled a cigarette from her jacket pocket, lighting it with a shaky hand. She stepped outside into the cold morning air, heading for the breaker box. One by one, she flipped the switches. Inside, she heard the hum of something long dormant coming back to life.

She turned back to the house, its door yawning open. The light inside flickered once. Then, it held steady.

For the first time since she arrived, she let herself sit in the doorway, exhaling smoke into the crisp morning air, staring out at the overgrown land that had been left to her, unsure if it was a gift or a curse.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me

Harvey woke with a startled breath, fragments of the dream still clinging like damp fabric to his skin. His chest heaved softly, body tight, muscles braced as though anticipating a threat already passed. Morning’s muted light traced familiar shapes across his ceiling—patterns he knew well, yet that felt somehow alien in this strange, lingering aftermath. The dream again. Always the same.

A woman by the water, her features blurred as if glimpsed through misted glass. Faceless, nameless, yet possessing an undeniable pull—a warmth that called to him even as dread coiled through his veins. He always followed, feet sinking deep into the wet sand, the cold rush of water rising swiftly around him. Chest-deep, throat-deep, then submerged completely. Her touch, gentle at first, soon tightened like a vice, dragging him deeper. His limbs grew heavy, useless as stone, her grip an anchor pulling him toward blackness. And always, just as the last breath emptied from his lungs, she whispered through the void—soft, inevitable:

It’s alright. Let go.

That was when he woke.

Harvey exhaled slowly, running a hand roughly through his hair. His pulse gradually steadied, though the dull ache in his chest remained stubbornly rooted. He wasn’t a man given to drama or superstition, yet the dream had carved its way deep beneath his skin, embedding itself within his subconscious. He needed no psychology textbooks to understand the meaning behind it. Awake, Harvey's life was precise, rational, a carefully structured dance of practicality and control. But asleep, the truth found him. In sleep, he had no walls strong enough to keep it at bay.

With a resigned sigh, he swung his legs off the mattress, the soles of his feet meeting cold, worn floorboards. He flinched slightly—the chill of late Spring had invaded the apartment overnight, settling beneath doors, between windowsills. The sensation was grounding, a sharp reminder that dreams, however vivid, inevitably dissolved with daylight. Morning always came, no matter what ghosts lingered.

Routine set him right.

Harvey moved through the motions without thinking—coffee brewing quietly on the counter, a brief stretch to loosen the stiffness in his shoulders. Outside, the gentle murmur of the waking town filtered through thin glass. Dawn painted the streets in gray-blue shadow, houses dimly outlined, a few scattered porch lights stubbornly pushing back against the gloom.

He stood at the window, mug in hand, sipping the coffee without tasting it. Below, the narrow street was silent, waiting, as if caught between breaths. Beyond it, the ocean stretched endlessly toward a distant, indistinct horizon, partially hidden beneath an ever-present veil of fog. The shoreline lay revealed, tide pulled back to expose jagged rocks, dark and angular against the sand. Despite seeing it each morning, Harvey always felt a quiet unease—as if the ocean, in some unknowable moment, might decide to reclaim it all, pulling the land back beneath its relentless waves.

Finishing his coffee, Harvey laced up his running shoes and stepped out into the morning.

The sharp chill bit through his clothing, but he welcomed the clarity it brought. His steps fell into their familiar rhythm, steady and comforting, his breathing syncing with the pace. Each stride took him along the streets still slumbering, past shuttered houses and dormant storefronts, winding down to the coast he knew by heart.

It was this, this predictability, that steadied him: the same streets beneath his feet, the same salt breeze filling his lungs, the same gray-blue horizon waiting patiently to greet him.

At the docks, the fog grew dense, wrapping the wooden planks in misty tendrils, obscuring distant boats into vague shapes that rocked gently on the water. Lanterns swung lazily on masts, casting warm pools of gold onto the docks below, highlighting men at their quiet morning tasks. Harvey paused, breathing heavily, watching them silently—the steady hum of low voices, the clang of metal on wood, the glow of cigarette embers sparking briefly before dying away.

Nearby, Willy was already hunched beside the crab pots, hands swift and practiced. Catching sight of Harvey, the old fisherman lifted one weathered hand in wordless greeting. Harvey returned it, then looked back to the sea, savoring a fleeting moment of stillness. 

The first hint of sunrise crept gently over the horizon, edges of gold seeping into the gloom, illuminating the mist in subtle shades of amber. Harvey lingered a moment longer, the stillness settling within him, before glancing at his watch.

It was time to head back.

By the time Harvey unlocked the clinic’s front door, the town was beginning to stir. Not quite awake, not fully settled. The hush of early morning was breaking apart—roosters crowing somewhere in the distance, the occasional voice carrying from a doorstep, the rhythmic creak of a porch swing, the faint sound of a car engine starting.

He glanced over his schedule. Three appointments. Light enough. He hoped it would stay that way. His shoulders ached, the sort of ache that had long since stopped feeling temporary. Too many late nights, too much time spent in his own head. He rolled his neck, exhaled slowly. Maybe he should start sleeping better. Maybe he should start a lot of things.

The door chimed.

“Good morning, Doc!” Maru’s voice rang out, too bright, too awake. She strode in, two steaming cups of coffee in hand, waving one at him like an offering. “Brought you one. Figured you’d need it.”

Harvey took it without hesitation, wrapping his fingers around the warmth. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said, taking a sip. Hazelnut. A little too sweet. He took another anyway.

Maru plopped down into the chair across from him, tilting her head. “No offense, but you look like hell.”

“None taken.” Harvey stretched out his legs, flexing his fingers against the to-go cup. “Compliments like that keep me going.”

She grinned. “Rough night?”

He hummed noncommittally.

“Obviously,” she said, unimpressed. Then, with the air of someone about to deliver breaking news, she leaned forward, eyes widening. “Oh my god, I bet you haven’t even heard yet.”

Harvey barely had time to lift an eyebrow before she barreled ahead.

“We have a new resident.” She set her coffee down with a decisive thud. “Just showed up out of nowhere on Saturday morning. No warning. Mayor Lewis nearly had a heart attack when he went to check on the old Cooper farm and found her there.”

A newcomer. That was rare. Since he’d arrived in Pelican Town five years ago, Leah had been the only other fresh face to drift in from the outside world.

“No, I hadn’t heard,” he admitted, taking another slow sip of coffee. He vaguely recalled the old Cooper farm—ivy creeping up the gate, a mailbox rusted shut, something vaguely melancholy about the place. “Do we know anything else about her?

Maru’s excitement only grew. “Her name’s Mollie Cooper. Her grandfather owned the farm west of town. Apparently, she used to visit as a kid, but I don’t remember her at all. She hasn’t come into town yet, though. Mom thinks she’s overwhelmed.”

Harvey nodded slowly. “Moving somewhere new can be... a lot.”

“Maybe,” Maru said, though she didn’t sound convinced. She turned her attention to the schedule, already moving on, but Harvey lingered on the thought. Mollie Cooper. A newcomer, returning after years away. Strange, but not his concern. He’d meet her eventually—people always ended up in his clinic.

Maru glanced back up. “Speaking of my mom… she’s first on the list today. Please don’t mention I skipped work last Friday.”

Harvey smirked. “I’m not in the habit of incriminating my coworkers. Your secret’s safe.”

Robin arrived later that morning, blowing in like a shift in the weather. Harvey had barely secured the blood pressure cuff around her arm before she sighed dramatically.

“So, I’m sure you’ve heard about the new girl by now.”

Harvey adjusted the blood pressure cuff around her arm. “Maru mentioned her. Mollie Cooper.”

Robin nodded. “That’s the one. She hasn’t even come into town yet. Not for groceries, not to say hello—nothing.” She pressed her lips together, and he could see it then, the weight of small-town curiosity pressing against her better judgment.

“Maybe she’s been busy,” he offered.

Robin scoffed. “Busy doing what? The farm’s still a mess. Nothing’s been mowed. Hell, the gate is still locked.”

Harvey hid his smirk behind a thoughtful nod. The thing about Pelican Town was that it did not lack extroverts. A place like this ran on conversation—on knowing people, on being known. He had spent months dodging their well-intentioned hospitality when he arrived, letting invitations pile up, his polite refusals turning into routine. Even now, five years later, he still kept his distance, still let them orbit around him rather than settle too close. It wasn’t unkindness. Just habit.

“She’ll come around,” he said, removing the cuff. “Some people just take time.”

Robin hummed, though it wasn’t quite agreement. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, her lips curved into a smirk. “I’ve heard she’s quite the looker. Maybe you should go introduce yourself.”

Harvey cleared his throat. “I’ll let her come to the clinic if she needs anything.”

Robin laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible, Doc.” She stood, stretching her arms over her head before slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She left with a parting wave, the echo of her words lingering in the space she had just occupied.

Maybe you should go introduce yourself.

Harvey huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Robin and her matchmaking. As if that would ever happen. He had learned long ago that relationships weren’t built on passing curiosity or well-placed nudges. The first spark was easy. It was everything that came after that unraveled.

Exhaling, he turned back to his paperwork, letting the conversation fade into the background.

By the time Harvey locked the clinic doors behind him, exhaustion had settled into his bones—a quiet, familiar weight he'd long since learned to carry. The day had passed in the usual blur: routine ailments, polite conversation, the endless shuffle of paperwork. Yet something lingered more heavily today, clinging to him like smoke on damp air.

Evelyn had come in early that morning, bringing with her the comforting scent lilac and freshly baked bread. She'd talked as he measured her vitals, her soft voice drifting gently into memory.

“Oh, I used to babysit her when she was little,” she'd said, her eyes warm with nostalgia. “She spent summers here with her parents. Such a sweet child—quiet, curious. Always picking flowers.”

Harvey had nodded, offering the practiced hum that encouraged people to continue without expecting much in return. He hadn’t asked for details. In Pelican Town, memories flowed freely—pressed gently into conversation like flowers left between pages. He rarely needed to prompt them.

Later, Jodi had brought a sharper edge to the day, her voice lowered conspiratorially, tinged with the thrill of fresh gossip. “She’s from the city, you know,” she'd murmured, as if that explained something essential. “Must be such a change for her, coming back to a place like this. Can't imagine what brought her here…”

She’d trailed off expectantly, leaving room for speculation to fill the silence. Harvey had merely nodded, his expression deliberately unreadable. People left places, returned, moved on—there was nothing remarkable in that.

Yet the name had lingered, following him throughout the day, settling into the spaces between patient charts and the soft, steady pulse of the monitors.

Mollie Cooper.

The name meant nothing to him—shouldn't have meant anything. And yet.

Upstairs, his apartment greeted him as always: quiet, orderly, untouched by the hours he'd spent beneath it. He shed his coat, placed his glasses carefully on the counter, stood for a moment in the dim kitchen, straightening a dish towel that wasn’t crooked. Habit, not necessity.

When he finally sank into his armchair, stretching his legs out and tipping his head back, a deeper weariness pressed against his chest—the kind sleep alone couldn't cure. The silence should have calmed him; it usually did. But tonight his mind circled back stubbornly to the same unanswerable question:

Why had she returned?

People didn't drift back to towns like this without reason, without something pulling them home, willingly or otherwise.

Harvey exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. It wasn't his business. Whatever Mollie Cooper had come seeking, whatever ghost had drawn her here, it wasn't his burden to carry.

She’d appear in the clinic eventually. Everyone always did. And when she did, she'd simply be another patient.

He pushed upright, moving toward the kettle, letting the quiet roar of boiling water drown out his restless thoughts.

Outside, Pelican Town had fallen still beneath a thin blanket of night. Streetlamps cast pools of faint gold over empty roads, shadows stretching long and thin, shifting beneath the silence.

In a town this small, no one stayed a stranger for long. For tonight, though, the quiet was enough.

And if tomorrow brought more whispers of Mollie Cooper—well, he'd deal with that when it came.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: How To Fight Loneliness

Mollie had lost track of time. Days slipped past her like water through cracked hands, pooling together into something stagnant and unrecognizable. She tried to count them, tried to find a rhythm in the way the light bled through the warped cabin windows, but it didn’t stick. By her best guess, it was Thursday. Or maybe Wednesday. It didn’t matter.

The weight of it pressed down on her. The stillness. The absolute suffocating quiet of this place, this nowhere she had marooned herself in. At first, she thought it was the comedown—the inevitable crash after a weekend of pushing her body past its limits. Or maybe it was her own mind, cornering her, forcing her to face the absurdity of her choices. The delusion of thinking this—this rotting wooden box in the middle of nowhere—could be an escape. Maybe it was just the depression, heavy and waiting, finally stepping forward after lingering at the edges of her mind for days. Whatever it was, it pinned her to the couch she had collapsed onto early Saturday morning, unwilling or unable to move beyond the orbit of her own decay.

Her routine was pitiful, if it could even be called that. She’d wake up, roll off the couch just enough to reach the bathroom, sip at the faucet with the same reluctance as a dying animal. Chain-smoke the last of her cigarettes. Stare at the ceiling and wonder how long she could go without eating. She chewed on stale Starbursts she found in the bottom of her bag and called it a meal. She slept, but it was fragmented, fractured. Every time she opened her eyes, the sunlight through the windows felt like a personal insult. The sounds of birds, of crickets, of frogs—their persistence gnawed at her, each chirp a reminder that the world continued whether she participated in it or not.

The cabin, once her grandfather’s, was just as sick as she was. Dust lay in thick sheets over the furniture, turning the surfaces into something foreign and uninviting. The air was stale, filled with mildew and damp rot, with the unmistakable scent of a place that had been abandoned too long. The ghost of her grandfather seemed to have taken whatever warmth the cabin once had with him. The space was cluttered now—not just with the old remnants of a life once lived here, but with her own mess. A duffel bag left half-unzipped, clothes spilling onto the floor. Ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, water bottles left empty and tipped over. Chaos feeding into chaos.

Even the windows mocked her. They framed pieces of the outside world she could barely stand to look at: the untamed fields, the skeletal trees clinging to the last of winter, the sluggish crawl of clouds across an uncaring sky. Too much and not enough all at once. 

She knew she couldn’t stay like this. Not forever. But the idea of movement, of action, felt impossible. In her worst moments, she wondered what would happen if she simply let herself dissolve into the couch, if she refused to get up at all. The thought was a quiet, shameful thing, tucked into the back of her mind. Still, the reality of her dwindling cigarette supply gnawed at her enough to force her into some semblance of action.

She needed to get the fuck out of this cabin.

Just as she was considering whether her grandfather had stashed any old tobacco somewhere—he must have, surely—there was a knock at the door. A sharp, unexpected intrusion into the silence. Her pulse jerked, the sudden rush of adrenaline cutting through the numb haze of her body.

The knock came again, more insistent this time, followed by a voice—cheerful, too damn bright for the dreary morning.

“Hello, neighbor! I know you’re in there—I’ve got a gift for you. Open up!”

Mollie squeezed her eyes shut. Willed the woman to go away. The last thing she needed was a conversation, let alone a forced display of neighborly kindness. But the knocking persisted, each rap on the door hammering against her skull.

She wrenched the door open, the sunlight slamming into her like a slap. Standing on the porch was a woman dressed in an offensively bright shade of yellow, holding a basket of produce and smiling like they were old friends.

“Well, hello stranger! I—” The woman’s greeting cut short as her gaze swept over Mollie. Her eyes flickered down, taking in the oversized flannel shirt barely covering Mollie’s frame, the tangled mess of her hair, the gaunt shadows under her eyes. Mollie followed the woman’s gaze and realized she looked like she’d been dragged out of a ditch. Which, to be fair, wasn’t far from the truth.

The woman recovered quickly, smoothing over her expression with the kind of practiced cheeriness that came with years of small-town politeness. “I’m Robin, one of your neighbors. I just wanted to drop off a little welcome package the community put together for you.” She extended the basket toward Mollie, who didn’t move to take it.

Robin hesitated, then set the basket down on the porch instead. “Anyways, I’m sorry for bothering you. We were starting to get a little concerned, you know, since no one’s heard from you since you arrived.”

“We?” Mollie croaked. Her voice felt like gravel, hoarse from days of disuse.

Robin’s smile didn’t waver, but there was something sharp in her eyes now. “My daughter Maru wanted me to invite you to the Saloon tomorrow night. Fridays are a big deal around here—it’s when everyone gets together. You should come by and meet some of your neighbors.”

Mollie’s stomach twisted at the thought of socializing. “I’ll think about it.”

Robin pointed up the path that wound toward the hills behind the cabin. “If you need anything, my place is just up there by the mountains. Oh, and I left my daughter’s old bike by the shed. Figured it might help you get around since your grandpa Frank’s truck’s out of commission.”

Mollie blinked. The gesture caught her off guard. It was more than she deserved, especially given how little effort she had put into being remotely pleasant. She shifted uncomfortably.

“Thanks.”

Robin’s smile softened, turning almost maternal. “Take care, Mollie. And give the Saloon some thought, okay? It’d be nice to see you there.”

With that, Robin waved and headed down the path, disappearing into the trees. Mollie stood there for a long moment, leaning against the doorframe, staring at the untouched basket at her feet.

The weight of the cabin pressed down on her again.

She needed a cigarette.

Mollie didn’t bother looking in the mirror before she left. She raked a hand through her hair, threw on a hoodie, and yanked on the first pair of leggings she found in the heap of clothes on the floor. Good enough.

The bike Robin had left leaned against the side of the shed like it was waiting for a mercy killing. A blinding shade of yellow, stickers of a boy band that had faded into irrelevance years ago plastered haphazardly across the frame. Mollie squinted at their grinning faces, their frozen enthusiasm both absurd and vaguely menacing.

The bike was barely holding itself together. The seat was cracked, the rusted chain wailed with every pedal, and the basket on the front hung lopsided, one screw away from collapse. Still, it moved forward, and that was all she needed.

The air was thick with leftover rain, warm in the way pavement gets after a storm—damp but sunlit, sticky in a way that clung to her skin. The sky had lost its morning gloom, the gray bleeding out into a stubborn, washed-out blue. Puddles shimmered under the sun, shrinking by the second, but the scent of rain still clung to the earth. Everything around her looked like a painting hanging in a dentist’s office—but one that had been hanging there for decades, its colors sun-faded and frame slightly warped from humidity. The town wasn’t glossy or new, but it was well-kept, pristine in a way that felt almost defiant.

Her legs burned as she pedaled, the effort shaking off some of the dull ache that had settled in her bones over the past few days. Sweat clung to the back of her neck, her breath coming in short bursts. The town was further than she remembered, the ride stretching on, endless. The dirt path shimmered in the sunlight, making her squint, making everything feel just a little too sharp, a little too loud.

By the time she reached Pelican Town, her legs felt like jelly. The town sprawled before her, aggressively quaint—cobblestone paths still slick from the rain, their edges lined with moss that looked more decorative than wild. Colorful awnings, their fabric sun-bleached and softened by years of storms, sagged slightly but remained dutifully intact. Meticulously arranged flower beds stood at attention beneath storefronts, their blooms almost too vibrant.

The bell over the door jingled as she stepped into Pierre’s General Store. The air inside was thick with the scent of fresh produce and something floral—tulips, maybe. Shelves were stocked with jars of preserves, baskets overflowed with fruit, everything arranged just so. It was suffocatingly domestic.

“Welcome to Pierre’s!” The voice rang out, chipper and rehearsed. Mollie looked up to see a man behind the counter, glasses perched on his nose, a smile stretched wide like it had been stapled there.

“One pack of Marlboros,” she said, skipping the small talk.

His smile didn’t waver, but something flickered in his eyes. “You must be Fred’s granddaughter! Mollie, right?” The man she assumed was Pierre adjusted his glasses, studying her face like she was a puzzle he had almost—but not quite—solved. “Wow—you look just like your mother.”

Mollie’s grip on the counter tightened. “So I’ve been told. Marlboros?”

He nodded like he was indulging a child, but made no move to grab them. “Your mother and I used to talk a lot back when she lived here. And your grandfather’s farm—what a place! So much potential. Are you planning on growing crops? Maybe raising livestock? We could really use more fresh produce—”

Mollie arched a brow, cutting him off. “Do you have the cigarettes or not?”

Pierre blinked, then recovered, his salesman grin snapping back into place. “Oh, of course! Well… actually, no. We don’t carry Marlboros. But we do have Newports and Camels. Great brands! Very popular with some of the… uh… older folks.”

Mollie let out a slow exhale. “Newports, then.” She slapped some cash onto the counter, her patience thinning.

Pierre moved with a practiced ease, retrieving the pack with a flourish. But instead of handing it over, he kept talking. “You wouldn’t happen to remember my daughter Abigail, would you? She’s around your age. Hey, Abigail!”

Mollie barely had time to grimace before footsteps echoed from the back room—heavy, irritated. A girl emerged, her purple hair faded at the ends, dark roots creeping in. Her eyeliner was thick, her expression carved from stone.

“What?” Abigail’s voice was sharp, her glare already locked onto Pierre.

Pierre beamed, undeterred. “Abigail, this is Mollie! Fred’s granddaughter. Maybe you two can be friends!”

Abigail turned her hazel eyes onto Mollie, scanning her with the kind of judgment only small-town girls could perfect. Her arms folded over her chest. “Right. Hi.”

Mollie grabbed the cigarettes, feeling the weight of Abigail’s gaze like a challenge. She wasn’t sure if the girl was annoyed, unimpressed, or just waiting to see if Mollie was worth paying attention to.

“So,” Abigail said, her voice as bored as her posture, “you’re from the city?”

Mollie nodded. “Sure am.”

“Cool.”

They stared at each other, neither breaking eye contact. Mollie took in the chipped black nail polish on Abigail’s fingers, the way her hair, though dyed, was well-maintained. Abigail scanned Mollie’s hoodie, her tired eyes, the way she stood like she was already looking for an exit.

Pierre, blissfully oblivious, charged ahead. “You should come by the Saloon this weekend! Everyone gathers there. Great way to meet people!” He elbowed Abigail, who recoiled like she had been physically assaulted.

Abigail let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, sure. You should… come by.” The invitation was reluctant, barely sincere.

Mollie smirked at the awkwardness of it all. “Maybe I will.” She tapped the pack of cigarettes against her palm before slipping them into her pocket.

As she turned toward the door, she caught Abigail shooting daggers at Pierre, who ignored it with the enthusiasm of a man who had successfully forced an interaction. Mollie stepped outside, pulling a cigarette from the pack before she even made it off the steps. The lighter flicked, flame catching, smoke curling around her fingers.

The first drag hit like a lifeline.

She already needed another one.

Outside, Mollie perched on a faded bench just beyond the town square, cigarette balanced between her fingers. The wood beneath her was worn smooth by time, the paint long since peeled away, leaving the grain exposed to the elements. It had likely been there for decades, positioned carefully so passersby could admire the square, the storefronts, the curated charm. The flame from her lighter flared, brief and bright, before she snapped it shut. She inhaled deeply, smoke curling from her lips, filling the space between her and the world.

Her thoughts circled back to Abigail. The way she’d stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable, like she was sizing Mollie up and deciding if she was worth the effort. That barely-there invitation, more obligation than offer. Abigail didn’t seem like someone who suffered fools, least of all her father, which Mollie could appreciate. Maybe even respect.

But there was something else, too. Abigail hadn’t been friendly, but she hadn’t been dismissive either. There had been a flicker of interest, a moment where Mollie had felt… assessed. Not in the way Pierre had done, all saccharine nostalgia and unwanted familiarity. Abigail had looked at her like she was trying to solve a puzzle, and Mollie wasn’t sure if she’d passed or failed.

She tapped ash from her cigarette, watching the flakes disappear into the wind. Drinking alone had been her default for a while now, but lately, it had started to feel dull, the same cycle of numbness and regret. Maybe the Saloon wouldn’t be the worst way to kill an evening. If nothing else, it was a change of scenery. And if it sucked? She could leave.

The thought of showing up, of sitting in the middle of this too-perfect town’s little social hub, amused her. Ruining the aesthetic, just by existing. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it wasn’t just about that. She was curious—not about the town, not about making friends, but about Abigail. What made a girl like that stay in a place like this? There was something sharp beneath the surface, something restless. Mollie recognized it because she felt it too.

She let her gaze sweep over the town. Spring decorations still hung, remnants of some festival she had missed. The signs for an Egg Hunt, long over, fluttered slightly in the breeze. 

Mollie could understand why her mother had bolted the second she turned eighteen. Though she suspected it had less to do with the town’s suffocating neatness and more to do with the fact that Mollie had been growing in her womb.

Her cigarette burned low, the ember a fading glow. She took one last drag before grinding it out beneath her boot, leaving a smudge of ash against the too-clean stone. A small, fleeting act of defiance.

Standing, she stretched, her muscles still aching from the bike ride. The town sat in front of her, orderly and untouched, waiting. She exhaled slowly, the last of the smoke trailing from her lips, before shoving her hands into her hoodie pockets and walking away.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: New Friends

The land still looked like hell.

Mollie stood at the edge of it, rake in hand, sweat pooling at the base of her spine, her breath slow and steady in the thick evening air. A week of work, and what did she have to show for it? A few clear patches of dirt? Some small semblance of order among the wreckage? The grass still rose past her knees, tangled with dry stalks and creeping vines. Whole trees had collapsed across the far end of the field, their trunks too thick to move on her own. And then there was the trash—rusted cans, broken tools, half-buried tires, remnants of someone else’s neglect.

She turned in a slow circle, taking in the mess, the decay, the way the cabin sat like an old dog too tired to lift its head.

A graveyard for things left behind.

Her fingers flexed around the rake handle, her jaw tightening. She had been chipping away at this place for days, but it still swallowed her whole, still felt insurmountable, like trying to empty an ocean with a spoon.

Something in her wanted to throw the rake straight through the nearest window.

Instead, she let out a slow breath, forcing her shoulders to drop, her grip to loosen.

Her eyes drifted toward the porch, to the path leading from it, where a memory curled at the edges of her mind.

A flash of movement—her feet wobbling on the pedals of a bike, her father’s steady hand gripping the seat behind her. He had crouched low, guiding her forward, his voice patient, urging her to keep pedaling, no matter what. Her grandfather had been watching from the steps, his deep laugh cutting through the air as he called out, “ That’s it, Mollie! Don’t stop now! ”

She could almost feel the wind pressing against her, could hear the sound of her father’s breath, even and sure behind her, the warmth of his hand—until it wasn’t there anymore.

For one brief, golden moment, she had been flying.

Then the front tire caught a rock.

The ground met her fast, gravel biting into her palms, her knees. The pain flared hot and sharp, tears welling before she could stop them.

And then—her father. Scooping her up, brushing dirt from her skin, wiping the blood away with the edge of his shirt. “ I’ve got you, baby girl. You’re okay. I’ve got you. ”

The memory broke apart like glass hitting pavement.

Mollie exhaled sharply, her grip tightening on the rake until her knuckles went white.

I’ve got you, baby girl.

She swallowed, jaw locking.

Where the hell had that gone? When had the steady hand let go? When had the ground shifted beneath her, and why hadn’t anyone caught her before she hit the bottom?

One day, he had been there, his voice strong and sure. The next, he was gone. Just a phone call from a stranger. A body found days too late. A shotgun in hand.

She blinked hard, forcing the thoughts back down, deep into the part of her brain where she could pretend they didn’t exist.

Not today.

She swiped at her face with the sleeve of her jacket, huffing out a sharp breath.

The sky had started to dim, the sun casting long, bruised shadows across the field. The air smelled like damp earth and dry grass, but her head felt stuffed with static.

Two weeks. It had been almost two weeks since she left the city. Since she shut her phone off, shoved it into a drawer, ignored everything she had run from. Two weeks since she had given herself permission to disappear.

And yet, she wasn’t entirely gone.

The past had a way of finding its way back to her.

First, Michael had called. Two in the morning, the phone rattling against the nightstand. She had watched it ring, silent and still beneath the weight of her own exhaustion, waiting for it to stop.

Then the texts. First, soft.

Why are you ignoring me? I just want to talk.

Then sharp.

You’re a selfish bitch. You love running away, huh? Just like your fucking mom.

She had shut the phone off after that. Left it there, battery drained, screen dark. She had resisted the pull of it ever since.

The only thing keeping her hands from reaching for it now was the rake in her grip, the quiet sound of leaves shifting beneath her boots.

Mollie shut her eyes, pressing a thumb against her temple, willing her mind to settle.

Michael didn’t exist here. Her father didn’t exist here. The past had no place in this moment.

The present was the weight of the rake in her palm. The cool air against the sweat on her skin. The way the earth smelled when the wind shifted.

And the fact that she was so fucking thirsty for something stronger than water or tea.

Mollie let out a sharp sigh, brushing dirt from her jeans.

She was done avoiding town.

It was Friday night. And from what she had heard, the Saloon was the place to be.

The Saloon pulsed with life, a beacon of neon warmth against creeping dark. The murmur of voices and the steady thrum of music spilling out onto the empty street. Light from the windows stretched across the cobblestone in fractured patterns, shifting with the movement inside. The air smelled thick with beer and grease, something burnt lingering underneath it all—fries forgotten in the fryer, maybe.

Mollie hovered at the entrance, her fingers brushing the handle, but she didn’t pull it open.

It had been a long time since she’d walked into a bar sober. Back in the city, there was a routine to it—a shot while doing her makeup, another while deciding on a jacket, a third before stepping out the door. By the time she arrived anywhere, the night had already started, the edges of things already softened.

Now she was stone-cold sober, standing in front of a bar full of strangers who probably already knew her name.

She exhaled, reaching for the cigarette in her pocket, just as movement caught her eye.

Off to the side, under the dim, flickering light of a crooked lamppost, a man leaned against the building.

Slouched, one hand buried deep in the pocket of a worn-out brown jacket, the other holding a cigarette burning low. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, and his jaw was rough with stubble.

Everything about him radiated the same energy as a pothole in the middle of the road—rough, unbothered, best avoided unless you wanted damage.

Naturally, Mollie walked straight toward him.

She pulled a cigarette from her pocket, rolling it between her fingers as she stopped in front of him. “Hey. Got a light?”

The man barely looked at her. “I don’t know you.” His voice was low, rough at the edges. “Why are you talking to me?”

Mollie blinked. Jesus Christ.

She lifted the cigarette slightly. “I was just asking if you had a fucking lighter.”

This time, he turned his head, dark eyes dragging over her like he was weighing whether she was worth acknowledging. He took one last, slow drag, exhaled the smoke in a long, deliberate sigh, then dropped the cigarette to the ground. He crushed it beneath his boot, grinding it into the dirt before meeting her gaze.

“Fuck off.”

Mollie stared at him, caught between disbelief and the overwhelming urge to throw her unlit cigarette at his face. “What the fuck is your—”

Before she could finish, warm hands landed on her shoulders, steering her away.

“What the fuck—?” she started again, twisting around, only to be met with bright blue eyes and a smirk.

“Don’t waste your breath,” the girl said, her voice light, almost amused. “That’s Shane. He’s like that with everyone.”

Behind them, Shane didn’t so much as blink. He pulled another cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a flick of his lighter, and exhaled slowly, like neither of them existed.

Mollie glanced over her shoulder at him, then back at the girl, who was still half-dragging her toward the door.

“Yeah, well, fuck Shane,” Mollie muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

The girl let out a sharp laugh, looping her arm through Mollie’s. “Finally, someone who gets it. You might actually survive here.”

Before Mollie could protest, the girl pushed open the Saloon door and tugged her inside.

The heat hit first—the warmth of packed bodies, the thick press of liquor and sweat in the air, the kind of stuffy warmth that clung to skin and fabric. Then the noise: glasses clinking, bursts of laughter, the hum of voices layered over the music blasting from the jukebox. A neon sign cast a red glow over the booths, illuminating the edges of people’s faces as they leaned in close, conversations spilling over sticky tables. 

The space was full, booths and barstools occupied, people pressed in close, lost in their own conversations. Near the back, a few pool tables stood under the dim haze of industrial lights, the green felt scratched up and well-loved. A group of guys leaned over one, laughing as they lined up their shots, the dull clack of billiard balls cutting through the din.

The girl turned to Mollie, eyes scanning her up and down like she was taking measure. Then, she smirked.

“I’m Haley.” She said it like she expected Mollie to already know.

“And you’re Mollie Cooper.”

The way she said it made it clear—Mollie had been discussed. Picked apart long before she ever stepped through the door.

“Word travels fast around here, huh?” Mollie’s voice was dry, doing her best to match Haley’s energy with a deadpan stare.

Haley’s smirk widened. “You’re the most exciting thing that’s happened all month. Don’t get a big head about it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Haley laughed—sharp, almost genuine—and looped her arm through Mollie’s again, pulling her deeper into the Saloon.

“Let’s get a drink.”

Haley shoved a drink into her hand, something sugary and artificial, and then dragged her forward without a word. Mollie barely had time to get her bearings before she was being pulled through the press of bodies, her boots sticking to the floor with each step.

She should have stayed home.

Haley stopped abruptly at a booth in the back corner, near the pool table. A group was gathered, mid-laugh, mid-drink, some half turned toward one another in easy conversation. It all came to a slow, screeching halt the second Haley arrived, Mollie in tow.

“Everybody, this is Mollie.”

It wasn’t an introduction. It was an announcement.

Mollie felt the weight of their attention, the quick assessments, the flickering glances. A few nods, a few disinterested stares.

She gripped her drink tighter and slid into the booth, claiming the edge. Haley, either oblivious or entertained, fell into the seat next to a guy in a worn-out letterman jacket, curling into him like a well-practiced habit.

“Come on, Mollie, don’t be shy.”

Mollie raised her drink, took a slow sip, and ignored her.

“This is Sam,” Haley gestured toward the blonde across from her, his hair a floppy mess of gel.

Sam grinned, lifting his beer. “Hey.”

“And that’s Sebastian,” Haley continued, tilting her chin toward the dark-haired guy beside him.

Sebastian barely looked up, just a glance through the curtain of his hair, a flicker of acknowledgment before turning his attention back to his drink.

“You already know Abigail,” Haley said, like Abigail needed an introduction anyway.

Abigail gave Mollie a lazy smirk. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

Mollie swirled her drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass. “Figured I’d take you up on your enthusiastic invitation yesterday.”

Abigail huffed a laugh, leaning back. “Fair enough. We don’t usually get new faces.”

“I’ll try not to wear out my welcome too quickly.”

A knowing glance passed between Abigail and Sam, some unspoken agreement.

“And this,” Haley said, looping her arm around letterman jacket guy like she was draping herself in ownership, “is Alex. Best for last.”

Alex turned toward Mollie, grinning in a way that felt a little too easy, a little too self-assured.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, holding out a hand.

Mollie shook it, quick, firm.

“Finally, another blonde around here.”

Haley smacked his arm.

“What?”

“Dude, Pam’s blonde,” Sam pointed out, not looking up from his drink.

Alex shrugged. “Yeah, but Pam isn’t hot.”

Another smack, harder this time.

“What?!”

“Stop talking,” Haley ordered.

Alex just laughed, rubbing his arm.

“So,” Sam leaned forward, arms braced on the table. “How’s Pelican Town treating you? Or is it too soon to ask without scaring you off?”

Mollie exhaled slowly. “It’s… small.”

Sebastian made a noise, unimpressed. “Translation: she hates it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Mollie tilted her head, lips curving just slightly. “It’s an adjustment.”

“City girl, huh?” Alex said, stretching out in the booth like he owned the whole damn room.

Mollie shrugged. “Born and raised.”

“That explains the vibe.”

Mollie lifted a brow. “The vibe?”

Alex didn’t get the chance to answer before Haley cut in.

“So,” she leaned in, head resting on her palm, eyes sharp. “What brings you here? Witness protection?”

Mollie huffed a laugh, lifting her glass. “Yeah, something like that.”

Haley narrowed her eyes. “Seriously?”

“No.”

Sam grinned. “Figured. But now I’m curious.”

Mollie tilted her head back against the booth, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She could feel them waiting, not pushing exactly, but expecting something.

She exhaled through her nose. “Just needed a change.”

That was all she was giving.

Haley studied her a second longer before shrugging, deciding she’d dig in later.

“Well, welcome to the middle of nowhere,” she said, tossing back the rest of her drink. “You’re stuck with us now.”

Mollie lifted her glass in return, smirking faintly. “Lucky me.”

Abigail caught it and smirked back before turning back to her own drink.

The conversation picked up again, folding Mollie into it without really needing her to participate. She let them talk, let them fill the space, let the room hum around her.

Haley and Alex bickered, something that felt rehearsed. Abigail leaned into Mollie slightly, watching them with mild amusement.

“If you’re wondering if they’re always like this, yes. Yes, they are.”

Mollie let out a quiet laugh, finishing off her drink. “Are they together?”

Abigail smirked. “Not currently. That could change by tomorrow, though. Young love and all that.”

They both watched as Haley smacked Alex’s arm again, his exaggerated wince making it clear this wasn’t a rare occurrence.

Another beer. Another shot. Mollie felt the tension in her shoulders fade, the space between things blur. The conversations overlapped, voices spilling into laughter, into movement, into the easy familiarity of people who had known each other for years.

Occasionally, they turned to her. Asked her things. She gave enough to keep them engaged, enough to keep them from digging deeper. She was good at that. They let her stay on the edges without asking for more.

The night was losing its edge, softening at the seams as people trickled out of the saloon. The din of voices thinned, the air less thick with heat and movement. Mollie had lost track of how many times she’d stepped outside for a cigarette, needing brief escapes from the press of bodies, the humid closeness of beer breath and laughter that didn’t belong to her.

Each time she returned, another stranger found her. Robin, smiling wide, gesturing to the man beside her—Demetrius, her husband. Then Lewis, insisting she meet Marnie. Then Penny, quiet and polite, standing next to a man with waves of auburn hair—Elliott, was it? Names piled up, already slipping through the cracks.

At the bar, Shane sat hunched over his drink, ignoring her presence entirely. She took that as a small mercy.

By midnight, the place had thinned out. Conversations softened, became murmur and static. One by one, people staggered toward the door, exchanging numbers, making promises—let’s do this again, see you next Friday—most of them half-hearted. She’d learned by now that companionship could be fleeting, that people liked the idea of keeping in touch more than the effort of actually doing it. It didn’t bother her. She didn’t need permanence, just a body at her side when she wanted it.

Alex swayed slightly against the bar, waving off her attempt to pay. “I’ve got it,” he slurred, his grin a little loose, a little unfocused.

Mollie rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“What kind of guy would I be if I didn’t pay for the new girl?” His elbow braced against the counter, all lazy charm and easy confidence.

Next to him, Haley’s fingers curled a little tighter around her glass, but her face didn’t change.

Mollie gave Alex a long, flat look. “Generous,” she said. “Or just drunk.”

He laughed, easy, careless. “Can’t it be both?”

Haley set her drink down with a decisive clink. “That’s sweet, Alex,” she said, looping an arm around his waist like she was holding him steady, though he wasn’t particularly unsteady.

Before Mollie could make her exit, Haley glanced back. “You. Outside.”

It wasn’t a request.

Mollie blinked, more amused than anything, but Haley was already heading for the door. With a slow breath, she followed.

Outside, the night was sharper, the air cut with salt and damp wood. The sea was somewhere beyond the dark, its breath distant but constant. Haley stood a few feet away, digging through her bag before holding out her hand.

Mollie raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Haley sighed, irritated. “Cigarette.”

Mollie pulled one from her pocket and handed it over. Haley held it between her lips, expectant. Mollie flicked her lighter open, touched the flame to the end. Smoke curled up in the dim glow of the streetlamp.

They stood in silence for a moment, the hum of the saloon muffled behind them.

“You don’t seem like the type to smoke,” Mollie said.

Haley exhaled slow, her lips curving faintly. “Only on Fridays.”

Then, as if deciding there was no use in circling, Haley turned toward her fully. Eyes sharp.

“You seem like the type to sleep with people’s boyfriends.”

Mollie let out a short laugh, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

Haley tilted her head toward the saloon. “We may not be dating. But we’re together. Me and Alex.”

It was almost funny, how much effort she was putting into making that clear. Mollie could have reassured her right away, could have shut it down with something smooth and easy. But there was something about Haley’s tone, about the way she was angling herself like this was some kind of territorial dispute, that made Mollie want to drag it out just a little longer.

“I didn’t realize I was giving a different impression,” she said finally.

Haley’s expression didn’t shift. “You’ve been friendly with him all night. Just making sure there’s no misunderstanding.”

Mollie exhaled smoke, watching it dissipate in the cold air. “Listen,” she said, voice even, “I’m not interested in Alex. The washed-up athlete thing isn’t really my type. If you’ve got a problem, maybe take it up with him.”

Haley inhaled slowly, the tip of her cigarette flaring in the dark. “I don’t have to.”

Mollie huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “Right. Because it’s easier to go after a stranger than admit your sort-of boyfriend is the one with wandering eyes.”

A muscle in Haley’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t argue.

The saloon door swung open behind them. Alex stumbled out, scanning the lot before his gaze landed on Haley. “There you are,” he said, smiling wide.

Haley turned to him immediately, looping an arm through his, grounding herself in the familiar. “Yeah, we were just finishing up.”

Mollie crushed the end of her cigarette under her boot.

She could let it end here. She could walk away, take the high road, all of that.

But Haley had started it.

She met Alex’s gaze, lips curling just slightly. “It was nice meeting you,” she said, voice light, tipping her head in something like a farewell.

Haley went rigid beside him, just enough for Mollie to notice.

Alex, oblivious, just grinned. “Yeah, you too.”

Mollie gave them a parting nod before turning toward the road. The gravel shifted under her boots, the quiet closing in again.

The energy of the night had drained from her system, leaving something hollow in its place. The cold settled into her skin. The sky stretched wide above her, stars sharper here than anywhere she’d lived before. She could see her breath, thin wisps disappearing into the dark.

Mollie hesitated when she reached the porch, fingers toying with her lighter, staring out at the empty land.

The silence was heavier here. Not bad, exactly. Just unrelenting. The kind of quiet that didn’t let her thoughts hide.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Solitude

Mollie surfaced from sleep, dragged up by the low, insistent hum of her phone. She groaned, rolling onto her side, pressing her face deeper into the pillow, willing it to stop.

It didn’t.

She cracked one eye open. The cabin was dim, early morning light stretching long across the floor, thin and gray. Cold air pressed in through the poorly insulated walls, settling into the gaps between her bones. Her blankets were a tangled mess around her legs, evidence of another restless night. The dull ache behind her eyes told her she hadn’t slept long enough. Or well enough.

The phone buzzed again.

She exhaled sharply, reaching for it blindly. When she saw the name on the screen, her stomach twisted.

“You’re alive.” No greeting. No warmth. Just that voice, flat and unimpressed.

Mollie closed her eyes, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Morning, Mom.”

“It’s barely morning.” A faint clatter of dishes, running water. A rare sober morning. “Where are you?”

“Did you just notice I was gone?”

Silence stretched. She could picture it perfectly—her mother in the kitchen, cigarette already half-smoked between her fingers, jaw clenched like she was gearing up to make Mollie regret speaking.

Mollie sighed. “I’m at Grandpa Frank’s.”

“I figured you ran off with that boyfriend of yours.” A sharp scoff. “Imagine my surprise when he showed up at two in the goddamn morning, banging at the door, making a scene, wondering where the hell you were.”

Her stomach twisted. A tight, nauseating coil. “Well, I’m at Grandpa Frank’s.”

“I heard you the first time,” her mother snapped. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know ,” her mother repeated.

She didn’t have the energy for this. Not now, not ever.

"And who’s supposed to help me with rent now?"

Mollie let her head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. "Maybe if you didn’t blow every paycheck at the bar, you wouldn’t need my half."

Silence. Then, the familiar flick of a lighter. A slow inhale. A pause. Then—

"You ungrateful little—"

Mollie held the phone away from her ear, let the words dissolve into background noise. She had heard it all before, had learned years ago how to let it wash over her.

She tapped her fingers against her knee, eyes fixed on the wooden beams above her head.

Eventually, her mother’s voice simmered down, cooled into something more calculated.

“So what’s the plan? Gonna hide out there until you get bored?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Mollie exhaled sharply. “Maybe I’ll clean it up and sell it. Maybe I’ll stay for a while. I haven’t figured it out.”

A dry laugh. “Stay? You’d lose your mind. You’re not built for that kind of life, Mollie. You never were.”

Mollie bit the inside of her cheek. She wanted to fight, wanted to say something sharp and cutting, but what was the point? Her mother had already decided what she was, had put her in a box long before Mollie had a say in it.

“I’ve got to go,” she said instead.

"Right, of course. You always do." A pause. "Just don’t forget you have a mother. And tell that piece of shit to stop calling the house and showing up here.”

Mollie’s fingers curled tight around the phone.

"You really know how to pick ‘em, huh?" Her mother scoffed, voice thick with something between amusement and disdain. "Like mother, like daughter, I suppose."

“I’ll handle it,” Mollie muttered.

She didn't wait for a reply. Just hung up, tossed the phone onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling until the silence swallowed her whole.

The cabin still smelled like dust, old wood, and the ghosts of things left untouched for too long. Mollie moved through it, flicking on the kettle, the click and hum of it filling the space.

She hadn’t unpacked much. A duffel bag slumped by the couch, half-unzipped, her clothes spilling over the side. The furniture was mostly unchanged—she’d aired out the blankets, scrubbed the worst of the grime from the counters, but it still felt like someone else’s life she was passing through. The walls had never been hers. The space had never felt like home.

Her eyes drifted to the boxes stacked against the far wall.

Her grandfather’s things.

She knew she should go through them. Knew that if she was going to sell this place—or stay—she needed to start pulling it apart, deciding what mattered and what didn’t. But there was something final about it. Like she’d be packing him away for good. Like admitting that the man who had lived here not three years ago wasn’t coming back.

She tried to remember more of him, more of the summers she spent here, but the memories wouldn’t come cleanly. They had been sporadic visits, carved into time, always cut short by arguments that echoed through the house, her mother’s sharp voice clashing with her grandfather’s steadier one.

Still, there were things she remembered. The wildflowers growing along the edges of the fields, brushing against her legs as she ran past. The brief, bright joy of stopping for ice cream on the way home from the beach, cold sugar melting on her tongue. The rough texture of a fishing net as her grandfather handed her a still-wriggling fish, laughing at the way she yelped and nearly dropped it.

They were pieces, scattered, unconnected. The farm itself, the house—those things had blurred over time. But the moments in between had stayed.

Her jaw tensed. She needed to do something. Anything to keep her hands busy. She grabbed her phone, turned on some music, and dropped to the floor in front of the nearest box.

The tape had started to yellow, peeling at the edges. Mollie dug her fingers under it, ripping it the rest of the way, the cardboard flaps giving with a dull sigh. A puff of dust lifted, catching in the stale light.

Inside, it was a mess of old papers and envelopes, receipts curled at the corners, brittle newspaper clippings. Her grandfather had been the kind of man who kept everything—grocery lists, ticket stubs, notes written on the backs of napkins. Most of it was useless.

She flipped through a stack of Polaroids, holding the first few up to the light.

The farm, years ago, before it had been swallowed by time. The fields were neat, rows of crops stretching toward the horizon, the fences still standing strong, unbowed by age. The house had color, a deep chestnut brown instead of the weather-worn shade it had become.

Another—her grandfather, leaning against an old truck, grinning, his face younger than she’d ever known it.

A town gathering, maybe a festival. Strangers smiling at the camera, kids perched on shoulders. She recognized the mayor, mid-speech, people around him only half-listening.

And then—a different kind of photo. Smaller. The paper thinner, glossier.

A family photo.

She stilled.

It was old, the colors faded. Her father. Her mother. And her—maybe four years old, perched on her father’s shoulders, tiny hands gripping his hair, her face split into a wide, open-mouthed laugh.

Her father holding onto one of her wrists, steadying her. His other arm draped around her mother’s back.

And her mother—she was smiling. Not forced. Not hollow. Just… there.

Mollie stared at it, the air in the room pressing heavy against her ribs.

It had been years since she’d seen a picture of the three of them together. Her mother had burned most of them after the divorce, tossing them into the fireplace one by one, like she was trying to erase something.

But her grandfather had been a packrat. He had kept this.

Had he meant for her to find it? Had he kept it for himself, or for her? Had he known she’d come back here eventually, that she’d have to dig through the pieces of a life she had barely been part of?

It was proof. Proof that there had been a time before everything collapsed. That once, they had been a family. That once, her father had been someone worth remembering.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because whatever version of him existed in this photo—it wasn’t real anymore. Maybe it had never been real at all.

Her grip tightened. She should feel nothing.

She didn’t.

She hated that.

Mollie inhaled sharply, shoved the photo back into the box, and slammed the lid shut.

The porch boards groaned beneath Mollie as she sank onto the steps, tea in one hand, cigarette in the other. The late afternoon light stretched long across the overgrown fields, spilling gold over dead grass and rusted fence posts. She pulled one knee up to her chest, tucking into herself.

She pinched the inside of her arm, sharp, nails pressing into skin just enough to hurt. Just enough to keep herself here, in this moment, instead of wherever her mind wanted to drag her.

The cigarette burned between her fingers, smoke curling into the air, thin and ghostlike. It tangled with the honeyed steam rising from her tea, mixing into something thick, something cloying. Mollie took a slow drag, held it in her lungs until her ribs ached, then let it out in one sharp breath.

She shouldn’t have opened that box. 

A breeze stirred through the fields, bending the tall grass, carrying with it the faintest trace of salt from the ocean. It smelled like earth, like sun-warmed wood. Like something untouched by time.

Too quiet out here. The kind of quiet that got inside your head.

Mollie closed her eyes. Breathed in. Counted. Then—her phone buzzed beside her.

She flinched.

Let it ring once. Twice.

When she picked it up, the screen glowed with a number she didn’t recognize.

The last time an unknown number called, it had been a stranger telling her they’d found her father. It could be Michael, burning through numbers, clawing at the edges of her silence. Could be one of the half-familiar faces from last night, their names already smudged and slipping through the cracks?

She answered. “Who’s this?”

A laugh. Light, easy. “Wow. No hello?”

Mollie blinked. “Abigail?”

“Bingo.”

She scrubbed a hand over her face. “Hey.”

“You busy?”

She could’ve lied. Said she was working. Said she had things to do. Instead, she exhaled. “Not really.”

“Good. Haley and I are walking to the beach. You should come.”

Mollie snorted. “Doubt Haley wants me around after last night.”

“She was actually the one who suggested it.”

That made Mollie pause. “You sure she meant to invite me?”

“I double-checked,” Abigail said, voice amused. “Look, if you don’t want to, say no. But we’re already outside your place, so...”

Mollie stiffened. “What?”

“We’re on the road.”

Mollie pushed to her feet, stepping off the porch. Sure enough, there they were—standing just past the overgrown path, framed by the light. Abigail waved, grinning. Haley stood beside her, arms crossed.

Mollie sighed, deep and slow. “Jesus Christ.”

“I know,” Abigail said. “We’re the worst.”

Mollie dragged a hand down her face before reaching for her jacket, slung over the railing. “Give me a second.”

She hung up and pulled it on as she walked, taking her time. She wasn’t sure why they’d come all this way, but standing still wasn’t an option.

When she reached them, Abigail smirked. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“I was thinking about ignoring you.”

Haley’s eyes flicked over her, unimpressed. “You look like you just crawled out of a barn.”

Mollie took one last drag of her cigarette, flicked it into the dirt. “Maybe I did.”

The walk to the beach stretched long, the dirt path curving gently through the trees. The afternoon sun slanted low, warming the road in lazy patches, gilding the edges of the world in soft gold. The wind carried the faintest trace of salt, teasing the scent of the ocean long before they could hear it.

Haley walked ahead, a camera in hand, the strap looped casually around her wrist. She barely slowed her pace as she lifted it, snapping photos of the trees, the sky, the fading remnants of spring clinging stubbornly to the branches. Occasionally, she turned the lens on Abigail, who hardly reacted, accustomed to the attention.

They were talking, the ebb and flow of their conversation weaving into the quiet around them. Mollie caught fragments here and there—something about work, about a town event coming up, about someone being an idiot, though she missed the context. Abigail gestured as she spoke, hands moving lazily through the air, while Haley responded with a wry smirk, tossing a remark over her shoulder before snapping another photo.

Mollie watched them from a step behind, hands buried deep in her pockets. It was strange how seamlessly they fit together. At a glance, they shouldn’t. Haley was all sharp edges, cutting without hesitation, while Abigail carried an easy warmth, the kind that filled in the cracks left behind. She wasn’t sure how she fit in their equation. 

The dirt path gave way to sand, the ground soft beneath their boots. The beach wasn’t the kind of picture-perfect stretch of coastline Mollie had seen in magazines—it was rough, uneven, the shore lined with smooth stones, patches of sand, and half-buried driftwood. Tufts of seagrass poked through the sand in stubborn patches, swaying in the wind. The ocean spread out before them, deep and restless, its surface glinting where the sunlight caught the waves.

Scattered along the horizon, fishing boats bobbed in the water, their hulls worn and weathered, paint faded from years of salt and sun. Some were anchored near the docks, their nets hanging to dry, while others drifted further out, silhouetted against the waning light. The sight of them tugged at something distant in Mollie’s memory—a vague recollection of standing at the edge of the docks as a child, watching the boats push off at dawn, the men calling to each other over the sound of the waves.

The waves rolled in, lazy and rhythmic, smoothing over the shore with each retreat. A few gulls hovered above the water, diving suddenly before disappearing beneath the surface.

Haley lifted her camera again, this time pointed at Mollie. The shutter clicked.

Mollie turned, scowling.

Haley smirked, lowering the camera slightly. “Relax. You’re not that interesting.”

Mollie rolled her eyes but let it go, gaze shifting back toward the water. The tide had crept closer now, licking at the edges of driftwood and seaweed tangled along the shore.

Abigail flopped into the sand, tilting her face toward the sun. The warmth of it was fading, the golden light bleeding into the first hints of evening, deepening the blue of the sky. Eventually, she spoke. “So, what’s the plan?”

Mollie flicked ash from the end of her cigarette. “What do you mean?”

Abigail gestured loosely. “With the farm. Are you staying?”

Mollie exhaled, watching the embers glow at the tip of her cigarette before fading.

Haley scoffed. “Oh, come on. It’s not a hard question.”

Mollie hummed. “It kind of is.”

Haley huffed. “How?”

Because she didn’t know. Because if she stayed, she’d have to face the silence, the weight of it pressing against her ribs. And if she left, she’d be back where she started—back at her mother’s, back to Michael, back to whatever version of herself she’d been trying to outrun.

“I think I’m going to clean up the farm and try selling it.”

Abigail smirked, exhaling smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Then I guess we shouldn’t get too comfortable with you, huh?”

Mollie huffed a quiet laugh. “Probably not.

The road back from the beach stretched long before them, but the warmth of earlier had begun to slip away. The quiet settled between their footsteps. The last of the afternoon light slanted through the trees, but the gold had dulled, swallowed by the creeping gray edging its way across the sky. They had lingered on the shore longer than Mollie expected, talking in fits and starts, letting the lull of the waves fill in the gaps.

It hadn’t been easy—Mollie wasn’t great at this, at letting people in—but it had been… nice. Comfortable, even, in the way things sometimes were when no one was trying too hard. Abigail had kept the conversation going, unbothered by Mollie’s reticence, while Haley had eventually relaxed, her sharpness giving way to something more measured.

Now, the three of them walked in an easy rhythm, the sand still clinging to their boots, the scent of salt and smoke lingering in their clothes. The wind had picked up, dragging through the trees, making the branches creak. A tension hung in the air now, an unspoken shift. The kind of quiet that came before something broke. Haley was flipping through the photos on her camera, occasionally showing Abigail a shot, her voice low with commentary. Abigail hummed in response, gesturing lazily with her cigarette, adding some remark that made Haley huff a laugh.

Then, the sound of movement—deliberate, steady. Footfalls against the dirt, rhythmic, controlled.

Mollie glanced up just in time to see someone moving toward them at a fast clip.

The wind pulled at his sleeves, ruffling the edges of his dark hair. The sky behind him had deepened to slate, thickening with the weight of an impending storm.

Mollie barely had a second to register more than the broad set of his shoulders, the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his forearms tensed slightly as he ran. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing sun-warmed skin, his dark hair tousled from the wind. He passed without hesitation, without so much as a glance, slipping by like an afterthought, like he hadn’t even noticed them.

She caught only a flicker of his expression, brows drawn in concentration, before he passed by.

Gone in an instant, disappearing up the road like a ghost passing through.

Mollie slowed slightly, tracking the space where he’d been. “Who was that?”

Abigail followed her gaze. “Doctor Harvey.”

She frowned. “That guy’s a doctor?”

“Yep.”

Haley scoffed. “He’s weird.”

Abigail shot her a look. “He’s a good doctor. And he’s nice. Just… keeps to himself.”

“And he’s hot,” Haley added dryly. “If you’re into that kind of thing.”

Abigail smirked. “What kind of thing?”

“Old.”

“Oh my god, he is not old.”

Mollie barely listened. She glanced over her shoulder, but he was already out of sight.

Still, she found herself asking, “How old is he?”

Abigail shrugged. “I don’t know. Early thirties?” She glanced at Mollie, eyes glinting. “Why? You interested?”

Mollie let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, definitely not. I’m on a break from men.”

“Amen,” the two girls said in unison, laughing.

The moment Mollie stepped into the Saloon, the warmth hit her like a sigh. Not stifling, not overbearing—just enough to chase away the lingering chill that had settled in her bones from the bike ride over. The rain had started halfway through her trip into town, a slow drizzle that turned into an unforgiving downpour, soaking her to the skin. She should have turned back. Instead, she pedaled harder, letting the sting of rain against her cheeks push her forward.

Now, water dripped from the hem of her jacket, pooling onto the floorboards. Her boots squelched as she walked, her jeans clinging uncomfortably to her legs. She shoved damp hair out of her face, ignoring the way a few lingering drops slipped down the back of her neck.

She should’ve just gone with them.

The thought had flickered on the ride over, quick as the neon hum of the open sign glowing in the window.

Back in town, after the walk to the beach, Abigail had asked if she wanted to come over for pizza at Sam’s. Mollie had shrugged, said maybe next time without really meaning it. Haley had rolled her eyes, muttering something about her loss, while Abigail had hesitated for half a second—like she was waiting for Mollie to change her mind.

She hadn’t.

Now, standing in the middle of a near-empty Saloon, rainwater slipping down her spine, Mollie figured she probably should have.

A few regulars were scattered around the bar—one woman hunched over a whiskey glass, another absentmindedly picking at a bowl of peanuts. She spotted Shane nursing a beer at the far corner of the bar, staring into his mug. She avoided looking his way as soon as she spotted him. The jukebox hummed out something low and slow.

She made her way to a booth tucked into the corner, slightly out of sight, shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of the seat. She was still damp, but the heat of the room was already working its way into her skin, the tension easing just a little.

Gus appeared at her side before she could settle, a menu in hand, his usual warmth crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

Fatherly , she thought. That hurt, in a way she didn’t want to look at too closely.

“You got caught in that mess, huh?” he asked, nodding toward her soaked clothes.

“Guess I should check the weather before I leave next time,” Mollie muttered, shaking out the ends of her hair.

Gus chuckled. "What can I get you?"

She barely glanced at the menu. “A blueberry tea,” she said, then, after a beat, “and a beer.”

Gus nodded and disappeared behind the bar.

Mollie leaned back, stretching her legs beneath the table. She let her eyes slip closed, felt a cold droplet slide from her hair onto her collarbone. Then—the jingle of the Saloon door.

A man walked in, shaking off an umbrella, tucking it neatly by the door.

He didn’t look around, didn’t hesitate, just moved—unbothered, routine. Mollie might not have given him a second glance, but then he turned slightly, and—oh. 

The runner.

It took her a second to place him, but once she did, she was sure. The man from earlier. Doctor Harvey. The one who passed them on the road, all long limbs and steady breath. A passing shadow.

He moved with an absent efficiency, unzipping his jacket and shaking it out slightly before hanging it up near the door. That was when she got her first real look at him.

Now, standing under the dim lights of the Saloon, he looked different. He was wearing a white button-up, sleeves shoved past his elbows. His glasses slipped down his prominent nose as he straightened. That’s when she noticed the mustache. Huh . How had she missed that before?

He must have felt her staring, because as soon as he finished adjusting his glasses, his gaze flicked up—just for a second.

Expression unreadable. Nothing there. No recognition, no curiosity. Just a flicker of movement, then disinterest. Like catching movement in a window and realizing it’s just your own reflection.

That was new.

Everyone in town had been too warm, too familiar. Strangers acting like old friends. Even the quiet ones still acknowledged her—a nod, a smile, something.

But not him.

His eyes skimmed past her like she was just another shadow in the room.

She watched as he made his way toward the jukebox, flipping through selections. He was tall. She hadn’t noticed earlier, but now she could see it. Broad-shouldered, lean, all wiry strength. Not the kind of build she expected from a doctor. And certainly not the kind of doctor she’d ever encountered before. Her mind flashed to the doctors from her past—old, grey, balding, stout. Men who smelled like antiseptic and exhaustion, who barely glanced at her when they scribbled down prescriptions. Perhaps that is all this man had in common with them—his disinterest in her.

His hair caught the glow of the machine as he made his selection. Something old. Slow. Jazzy.

Mollie wasn’t staring.

She was observing.

She liked to people-watch. Always had. Especially when the other person wasn’t paying attention, when they were lost in their own world, unaware of the way they moved, the way they filled space.

He didn’t linger long. After selecting his song, he moved to the bar, where Gus greeted him with an easy, “Evening, Doc. Usual?”

“That’d be great. Thanks, Gus.”

That voice. It was… nice. Deep, but not rough. Like something you could fall asleep to, or something that belonged on the radio late at night, soothing people into dreams.

Mollie looked down at her hands, fingers picking absently at a hangnail.

A few moments later, Gus returned, setting her tea and beer in front of her. “You eating tonight?”

“Yeah,” she said, shifting slightly in her seat. “Soup, if you’ve got it.”

Gus nodded. “What kind?”

Mollie smirked, just a little. “Surprise me.”

Gus chuckled, shaking his head as he wiped his hands on his apron. “Alright, but if you don’t like it, no complaints.”

“No promises.”

He let out a good-natured huff and turned back toward the bar, pausing just long enough to toss a dish towel onto her table. “Dry off, kid.”

Mollie blinked at the towel, then smirked, picking it up and running it over the damp ends of her hair. 

Across the room, the man—Harvey, she supposed—had opened a book, posture stiff, shoulders drawn.

Uninterested.

Mollie wasn’t sure why that bothered her. Not that she wanted company—she didn’t. But there was something deliberate about the way he avoided her.

Mollie exhaled, turning her attention to her beer.

She wouldn’t look at him again.

Probably.

By the time Gus reappeared with her soup— a steaming bowl of chicken noodle, a classic, kid, can’t go wrong with it —she had settled into her seat, warmth sinking into her limbs. She dug in, barely tasting the broth.

Across the room, she could feel it—the shape of him, the presence. Not watching her, but there. Aware, maybe, in the way two strangers always are in a near-empty space.

She stirred her soup, frowning slightly.

Maybe it was ego. But that wasn’t quite right.

This was how it usually started—two people in a bar, an exchanged glance, a drink. She knew the rhythm. It never took long. A name against her ear, a hand at the small of her back.

She didn’t remember most of them. Didn’t try to.

They were distractions. Disruptions. Something to drown out the sharp edge of loneliness, to press it into something more palatable, even if it was only for a few hours.

But she wasn’t doing that anymore. Or, at least, she was trying not to.

And yet, here she was, irritated by the absence of something she didn’t even want.

Pathetic .

A chair scraped against the floor, the sound cutting through the soft hum of music. Not his. She didn’t check.

She focused on the slow pull of the song, the distant murmur of Gus talking to someone at the bar. The jukebox spun its melody, low and aching.

I sit and I stare…I know that I'll soon go mad…In my solitude…

Mollie exhaled sharply, shaking her head. Maybe it was just the song getting to her. The kind of thing that worked its way into you, made you feel things you had no business feeling.

She wasn’t lonely.

She was fine.

And she wouldn’t look at the handsome stranger again.

Probably.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: With A Little Help From My Friends

Mollie woke with a start.

The cabin was silent, but something in her body hadn't caught up to the stillness. Her breath was shallow, her limbs locked stiff. The weight on her wrists—gone, but not gone enough. Phantom hands, pressing, holding. She stayed like that, frozen in the dark, listening for something she couldn't name.

Nothing.

Just the whisper of the wind through the cracks in the walls. Just the slow creak of the old wood settling, stretching like something waking up. Just her own pulse, thick and heavy in her ears.

She exhaled, shuddering. Wiped her face. The dampness on her skin startled her. She pressed her fingers against her eyelids until colors bloomed in the darkness. Just a dream.

The clock on the stove glowed an eerie green: 5:08 AM. She groaned, dragging the blanket over her face, but sleep had already abandoned her. She could feel it in the way her skin buzzed, in the restless twist of her stomach. Like something had followed her out of the dream, clinging to the edges of her mind, whispering at the corners of the room. Her body was still caught in the snare of the dream, still tangled in something that didn't exist anymore—except in the places where it always would.

She needed air.

Mollie pulled on her hoodie, cinched the strings tight, and stepped outside.

The world was still half-asleep, wrapped in the thick, crawling fog that smothered Pelican Town in the early hours. The trees loomed at the edge of the field, their black silhouettes warped and reaching, like bones jutting from the earth. The old fence, barely standing, was half-swallowed by the mist, its posts leaning like the weary spine of a forgotten thing. The air was wet, sharp with salt and damp rot. The kind of cold that settled into your ribs and stayed there.

Mollie lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, the flame flickering weakly against the morning gloom. She inhaled deep, smoke burning down into her lungs, and walked.

She always had.

When the trailer had been too suffocating, too full of slammed doors and glass breaking against walls—she walked.

When her mother had been too drunk to stand but still mean enough to throw things—she walked.

When Michael’s grip had been too tight, his voice too soft, twisting into something uglier—she walked.

Distance had always been the only thing that made sense.

In the city, she’d slip out in the middle of the night and wander until the streets blurred together, until she forgot where she was going, until her legs ached and her mind emptied itself out like a drain. Some nights, she’d sit on a curb and watch headlights smear across wet pavement.

Now, the only thing ahead was the road. The fog swallowed up the edges of it, pressing in, turning everything too quiet. The trees whispered to each other in the wind, their bare branches rattling like old bones.

Eventually, the dirt turned to sand.

The ocean stretched before her, vast and unmoving. A dark thing, endless and hungry, the horizon barely visible through the thick morning haze. The tide was low, leaving behind ribbons of seaweed and driftwood like offerings to something unseen. The waves dragged themselves over the shore, slow and heavy, whispering secrets to the sand.

Further out, the shapes of fishing boats floated in the mist, their hulls barely more than shadows. Some of them had their lights on—soft, flickering glows against the dark—but most sat still and waiting, as if they, too, were holding their breath.

Mollie pulled off her boots, peeling her socks away with them, and stepped forward.

The water was sharp against her bare feet, the cold seeping into her skin. It felt like the sea was tasting her, testing her. She didn’t flinch. Just walked, slow, letting the sea lick at her ankles, feeling the sand shift beneath her.

The sun was trying to rise, but the fog swallowed its light, leaving only pale, sickly streaks bleeding across the sky.

She exhaled, watching her breath curl into the damp air before disappearing.

Sometimes, she wished she could disappear with it.

The lawnmower was a lost cause.

Mollie had spent the better part of the morning wrestling with the damn thing, hands stained with grease, sweat trickling down her spine, sticking her shirt to her skin. The morning fog had burned away too fast, leaving behind a wet, heavy heat that clung to everything—thick in the air, pressing against her ribs. The sun had climbed higher, brutal and unrelenting, glaring off the rusted metal of the mower, making her squint.

She wasn’t mechanically inclined, but she wasn’t an idiot either. Plus, google was free. She’d checked the gas, primed the carburetor, cleaned the air filter, and double-checked the oil. It should have started. It should have fucking started.

The grass around the farmhouse was creeping toward her knees, swallowing what was left of the yard. It was embarrassing, honestly. Like the place was laughing at her. You don’t belong here. You don’t know what you’re doing.

Mayor Lewis had supposedly been keeping up with the property since her grandfather died, but the second Mollie showed up, he must’ve figured it was her problem now. Fine . Except she couldn’t even get a damn lawnmower to work.

She yanked the starter cord again, putting her whole weight into it.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

Again—

The engine sputtered to life.

The lawnmower lurched forward, dragging Mollie a step with it before the cord wrenched out of her hands, snapping back like a rubber band. She lost her balance, her ass hitting the ground hard as the engine wheezed and choked out. The cord now dangled free in her hand, limp and useless.

Mollie stared at it for a beat, dust sticking to the sweat on her skin. Then, without thinking, she stood and kicked the damn thing.

And again.

And again.

She wasn’t even sure she was aiming. Just let her boot connect with metal, letting the dull, rattling thunk fill the empty space where her patience had been.

“Damn, chill out.”

Mollie whirled, blood still pounding in her ears.

Shane stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression half-amused, half-mocking.

She exhaled sharply. “Can I help you?”

“No, but you clearly need my help.” He nodded toward the lawnmower. “I heard yelling. Marnie thought someone was getting murdered.”

Mollie’s face burned. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, only to smear grease across her temple. Perfect.

“We live just over there,” Shane added, jerking a thumb toward Marnie’s farm. “You weren’t exactly being quiet.” His gaze flicked to the abandoned lawnmower. “Is it dead?”

Mollie sighed, arms crossed tight over her chest. “It won’t start. Or rather, it won’t stay on.”

She picked up the detached pull cord, turning it over in her fingers. “Having this fall off probably doesn’t help.”

Shane huffed out a laugh, the sound scraping at her nerves. “Neither does kicking it.”

Mollie debated throwing the cord at his face. “Thanks for the insight, expert.”

“Did you check the spark plug?”

“The what?”

Shane’s expression turned flat. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Move.”

He crouched beside the mower, pulling a wrench from his pocket. Mollie hadn’t even noticed it before—like he carried it with him everywhere, like he expected things to fall apart. 

The sun glinted off his hair—black, but with the barest hint of purple in the light. 

“You a mechanic or something?” she muttered.

“Not really. Just fix things when they break.” He unscrewed something, lifting a small object to inspect it. “Yup. Your spark plug is shot. You’ll need a new one.”

He gestured to the mower. “Once you replace it, just screw it back in here. Should start fine.” His gaze flicked up. “I can fix the pull cord.”

Mollie narrowed her eyes. “Why are you helping me?”

Shane sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know I wasn’t exactly friendly the other night.”

She snorted. “Understatement.”

He ignored her. “Figured I’d make it up to you.”

Mollie weighed that for a moment, rolling the spark plug between her fingers. “Free of charge?”

Shane smirked. “I’ll let you buy me a beer sometime.”

Mollie rolled her eyes, but nodded.

He stood, brushing dirt from his knees. “I’ve gotta head to work. But I’ll come by tomorrow, give you a hand.”

She hesitated, then held out a hand. “Mollie.”

He glanced at it, then wiped his palm on his jeans before shaking hers. His grip was firm, calloused.

“I know,” he said. Then, he smirked, “Shane.”

“I know.”

Outside, the world was shifting. Spring was dying. The last of it burning away under a sky that had turned hard and bright, the air thick with the weight of a coming summer. It filled the cabin like a ghost, pressing into the walls, clinging to the furniture, curling at the nape of Mollie’s neck. The old fan wheezed on the floor beside the couch, rattling weakly, moving the thick air just enough to remind her how useless it was. She stretched out, letting the lukewarm breeze brush over the sweat pooling at her collarbone. 

She didn’t quite understand how it could be this hot for the middle of May.

Mollie let her head loll to the side, gaze drifting to where the lawnmower sat, tucked in the shadow of the shop. Her hands still smelled like oil, like rust. Shane had helped. That alone was strange enough to keep needling at her. He hadn’t even given her a second look when she first got here, and now he was fixing her shit like it was his business. Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe it was just easier than standing around in the sun watching her lose her mind over a machine that wanted her dead. Either way, she wasn’t about to complain.

Mollie reached for her phone, pressing the power button. A long, grating buzz rattled through her palm as the screen blinked to life. Missed calls. Too many texts.

Michael. Again.

She clenched her jaw, swiped past them before she could linger.

None from her mother. Not surprising.

And then, an unknown number. A handful of texts.

Beach today. Bring booze.

You coming?

We’re leaving soon.

Hello????

Mollie exhaled, scrubbing a hand down her face. She clicked the call button before she could think too hard about it.

Abigail answered immediately. “Jesus, finally. Thought you died.”

Mollie huffed a quiet laugh, tipping her head back against the couch. “Not yet.”

“I tried calling, but your phone was off. Haley and I were about to take that personally.” Her voice was half-muffled, wind cutting through the speaker. “Are you coming or what?”

Mollie hesitated, rolling a beer can under her foot, watching it wobble on the uneven floorboards. The thought of the ocean, cold and steady, the salt breeze licking sweat from her skin— fuck, that did sound nice.

“I guess.”

“You guess?” Abigail scoffed. “It’s like a hundred degrees out, and you wanna sit in your haunted-ass cabin all day? No way. Bring your own booze. Also, bring a bikini.”

Mollie frowned. “I don’t have a bikini.”

“Ugh, okay. Hold on—” There was muffled talking on the other end, a low male voice. “Okay, Seb and I are just gonna pick you up now. I have extra bathing suits.”

“No don’t—”

“Shut up. Be ready in twenty.”

The line went dead.

Mollie groaned, letting the phone drop onto her stomach. She could already feel the rush, the inevitable tug forward, like the current of the town was dragging her whether she wanted it or not. At least she had time for a shower.

The knock at the door came just as she was tugging on her shorts, still damp from rushing to get dressed. Then another—harder, more impatient.

Mollie swore under her breath, stubbed her toe on the corner of the coffee table, and practically tore the door off its hinges.

“Holy fuck, one second.”

Abigail stood on the porch, sunglasses perched on her head, looking entirely unbothered by the heat. Sebastian was next to her, hands shoved deep in his pockets, offering Mollie a lazy, lopsided smile.

Abigail peered past her, eyes narrowing at the couch. “Dude. Do you sleep out here?”

Mollie glanced at the mess—blankets tangled on the floor beside the couch, a pillow shoved halfway under the coffee table, stray beer cans littering the coffee table. 

“The bed’s not comfortable.”

Abigail hummed like she didn’t quite believe her, but didn’t press. Instead, she stepped inside, flopping onto the couch like she owned the place. “Alright, hurry up. I’m sweating my tits off.”

Mollie disappeared into the bathroom to braid her hair. Through the thin walls, she heard Sebastian mumble something, Abigail responding with a dramatic sigh.

“Do we need to stop for drinks?” Abigail called.

“Nope,” Mollie yelled back, tugging her braid tight. “Got plenty.”

When she returned, Abigail was lounging on the couch, legs stretched out, an arm slung over the back of it.

But it wasn’t Abigail that caught her eye—it was the small plastic bag dangling from her fingers, the familiar green nestled inside.

“You smoke?” Abigail waggled her eyebrows, shaking the bag.

Mollie smirked, slow and easy. “Now you’re talking.”

By the time they reached the beach, the three of them were laughing so hard they could barely walk straight.

Mollie’s cheeks hurt from laughing, her body loose with the kind of warmth that only came from being slightly too high in the sun. She could still hear Sebastian trying to retell whatever story had started them off in the first place, though at this point, it had unraveled into nothing but half-sentences and wheezing breaths.

When they finally made it to the others, Haley’s face twisted like she smelled something bad.

“What took you guys so long?” Arms crossed, voice sharp.

Mollie bit her lip to keep from laughing again, but Abigail, still half-hysterical, wasn’t much help.

“Mollie needed a bathing suit.” She waved a hand vaguely. “And Sebastian got us lost.”

Sebastian groaned, dropping onto the nearest blanket. “I did not.”

“You did,” Mollie said.

“Whatever.” He flopped onto his back.

Sebastian had been sure—so sure—he knew a shortcut. He’d marched them through the trees, smug as hell, only to emerge in someone’s backyard. By the time they actually reached the beach, the sun had shifted and their buzz had settled into something warm and easy, everything a little too funny, a little too slow.

Haley sighed. Then, her eyes flicked past them, her expression tightening just slightly.

Mollie followed her gaze.

A little ways down the shore, a woman was packing up her things, shaking sand from her towel and tucking a sketchpad under her arm. Her red hair was tied up in a loose bun, a few strands slipping free in the breeze. She moved unhurriedly, adjusting the strap of her bag over one shoulder before heading toward the beach path. Leah, Mollie realized. She hadn’t officially met her yet, but she knew the name, the vague outline of her existence in town.

Haley was still looking.

Her gaze followed Leah’s movements, lingering as she walked away, something unreadable flickering behind her expression. Not in an obvious way, but long enough that Mollie noticed. A gaze that lasted a second too long before she pulled her focus back like a rubber band snapping into place.

Her eyes flicked back to Mollie, narrowing slightly. “Isn’t that mine?”

Mollie glanced down at the burgundy bikini Abigail had lent her. It hung a little loose, her frame lacking the curves that Haley had in abundance.

Abigail cut in before Mollie could answer. “Mhmm. You gave it to me, remember?”

Haley turned her glare to Abigail now, as if realizing she was part of the betrayal.

“It didn’t fit,” Abigail continued, completely unfazed. “Your boobs were too big.”

A beat of silence. Haley’s expression twitched, but she didn’t argue.

Abigail shrugged. “Mollie didn’t have a bathing suit, so I lent it to her.”

Haley rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything else. Instead, she sank down next to Alex, looping an arm through his like a stake in the ground. A claim. But Alex wasn’t looking at her.

Mollie felt his eyes drag over her like an itch, and suddenly, she was too aware of herself. The way the straps of the bikini dug into her shoulder, the way her skin felt exposed to the air.

She wanted a sweater.

Abigail, seemingly unfazed, linked her arm through Mollie’s and tugged her toward the group. “We come bearing gifts,” she announced, dropping a cooler at Sam’s feet. “Hot dogs and copious amounts of beer.”

Sam gasped, clutching his chest. “My hero.”

He popped open the cooler, immediately pulling out a pack of hot dogs and tearing into it with his teeth before shoving one, completely raw, into his mouth.

Mollie watched in horror. “Aren’t those supposed to be cooked?”

Sam, completely unbothered, took another bite. “Raw hot dogs are superior.”

She eyed him, then the hot dog, then him again. After a beat, she shrugged and took the one he held out to her.

She chewed, considering. “Not bad. Not great, but not bad.”

Haley made a disgusted noise. “You two are freaks.”

Sam grinned at Mollie, like they were in on something together.

The fire crackled low, its glow licking against the dark, shifting as Sam prodded at it with a stick. The group had settled into a comfortable haze—drinking, talking, the lazy sprawl of bodies on blankets and coolers. Haley was ranting about her sister again, voice sharp, hands gesturing wildly, but Mollie had long since stopped listening.

She was too busy trying to figure out how the hell anyone was supposed to play spikeball when they were as uncoordinated as she was. Sam had taken it upon himself to teach her, but it was going about as well as one would expect.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said, spinning the ball on his fingertip. “Just react.”

Mollie, stone-eyed and intensely focused, smacked the ball at the net. It bounced sideways, completely missing the mark.

Sam grinned. “Okay, maybe not like that.”

She groaned, flopping onto the sand. “I don’t think I’m built for sports.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that impression.”

She shot him a glare, but it lacked any real heat. Sam was easy like that. Kind in a way that wasn’t forced, like warmth baked into his bones. Mollie had been surprised to find out they were the same age—she would’ve guessed younger, but not because he was immature. Maybe it was his open face, the lack of shadows lurking behind his expressions.

When Abigail had joked about it, it turned into a whole thing.

“Sam looks young because he can’t grow facial hair,” she declared.

“Sam looks young because of his baby face,” Sebastian countered.

Mollie had just hummed, watching Sam from across the fire rolling his eyes at his friends, a shy smile on his face. No. It was something else.

The same could not be said for Haley.

Haley, who had started the night snide and biting, all sharp edges and posturing, but was now tilting dangerously close to sloppy. Mollie watched her sway near the fire, all loose limbs and unfocused eyes, her nastiness dissolving into something hollow.

She kept gravitating toward Alex, trying to kiss him, touching his arm, searching for something that wasn’t there. Each time, he brushed her off. And each time, her smile dropped a little further.

Mollie scooted closer to Abigail, lowering her voice. “Does she usually get like this?”

Abigail sighed, glancing at Haley, who was now attempting, and failing, to pour another shot without spilling. “Not usually. I think her and Alex are in a fight.”

Mollie followed her gaze to Alex, who was throwing a football with Sam, clearly unbothered.

Abigail hesitated, then leaned in. “You didn’t hear this from me.” A pause. Then, quieter: “But he cheats on her. A lot.”

Mollie blinked. Not surprised, exactly. More like confirming something she had already suspected.

“And she takes him back?”

Abigail let out a slow breath. “More like he takes her back. He finds some girl from college, dumps Haley, and when he’s back in town, she begs him to take her back. It’s like clockwork.”

Before Mollie could respond, Haley staggered toward them, holding three shots like a prize.

“Shhhhhhots!” She beamed, pushing one toward Mollie.

Abigail sighed, shaking her head. “Haley, maybe—”

Haley cut her off with a sharp look, already tipping one back.

Mollie hesitated, but Haley was staring at her, expectant, like this was some kind of test.

Fine .

Mollie took the shot, swallowing the burn.

Haley smirked, victorious, and downed the third one meant for Abigail. Abigail just made a face. “Look, Haley, I’m not taking care of you when you start puking. I gotta be home by 1.”

“Adults shouldn’t have bedtimes,” Haley muttered. Then, her gaze slid back to Mollie, slow and deliberate. A smile curled at the corner of her lips, mean and knowing.

“Besides, Mollie can help me get home. Right, Mollie?”

Mollie blinked. Felt something settle in her stomach, low and uneasy. She had a feeling saying no wasn’t an option.

“Sure.”

Haley’s smirk widened. “Knew you’d be a team player.”

She turned, flitting back toward the group like nothing had happened.

Mollie exhaled.

Abigail snorted. “Congrats. You’ve been recruited.”

Mollie dragged a hand down her face. “Lucky me.”

Abigail just sipped from her cup, watching Haley. Not worried, exactly. But something close.

Mollie frowned. “Why are you even friends with her?”

Abigail tilted her head back, considering. “I don’t know. We’ve been friends since we were kids. She’s a good friend… sometimes.” A beat. “Those moments can be rare.”

Mollie nodded slowly. She understood.

That was the thing about people like Haley. You took what you could get. You convinced yourself the bad parts weren’t the real parts. You waited around for the good moments to come back, and when they did, you held onto them like proof.

She had done the same thing, once.

Abigail’s attention drifted past her, toward the shoreline. Sebastian stood alone by the water, cigarette burning between his fingers.

“I’ll be back,” Abigail murmured, already standing.

Mollie watched her walk over to him, watched the way Sebastian’s posture shifted when he noticed her there. He didn’t move away. Didn’t look annoyed. If anything, it was like he had been waiting for her.

He handed the cigarette to Abigail, who took a drag, cigarette still in his hand.

She had asked earlier, between sips of something too strong and a lazy game of spikeball, if they were together. Abigail had coughed out a laugh, shaking her head, absolutely not . Mollie had let it drop after that.

But she had eyes.

She saw the way they looked at each other—how Sebastian barely spoke in a group, but always responded to Abigail. How she always searched him out, how he always moved a little closer when she did. How, even now, in the dark, away from everyone else, they stood in a silence that didn’t need filling.

Mollie took a slow sip of her beer, gaze flicking toward them once more.

The fire had burned down, the laughter thinning into the quiet hum of insects and the distant crash of waves. Sebastian had walked Abigail home about an hour ago, leaving her with the rest of the group.

Mollie wasn’t drunk enough to feel invincible anymore, but she was still loose, still hazy around the edges, watching the way Alex leaned into her space, how his arm lingered just a second too long.

“Hey, Blondie, give it a kiss.” He smirked, holding out a beer pong ball. “For good luck.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes, but humored him, pressing a quick kiss to the plastic. He tossed the ball, and it landed dead center in the final cup. Sam groaned, throwing his hands up in defeat while Alex whooped, grabbing Mollie by the waist and spinning her around.

“My hero!” he crowed.

Mollie let herself be spun, laughed loudly at the suddenness, let the beer and the breeze and the looseness of it all carry her for a moment. But when Alex finally set her down, she felt it immediately—an absence.

Haley.

Mollie glanced around. The firelight cast long, flickering shadows over the sand, the others half-obscured in the dark. Sam was already setting up for another round, Alex preening over his victory, but Haley—Haley, who had been glued to Alex’s side all night, who had been slurring and swaying and pushing too hard for affection—was nowhere.

Shit.

Mollie felt her buzz slip just slightly as she scanned the beach. Haley had been on another level, and if she’d wandered off—

“I’ll be right back,” she said, but neither Sam nor Alex were listening, too caught up in their game.

Mollie turned toward the water first, searching for any sign of bright blonde bobbing near the shore. Nothing. She made her way toward the dock, the planks groaning under her steps, but it was empty, the ocean rolling steady and dark beneath her. She began on her way back to the fire, silently hoping she’d wandered back.

She almost didn’t hear it at first—the soft, hiccuped sniffling, tucked away near the treeline.

Mollie followed the sound, pushing past a thicket of brush, and there she was—Haley, hunched on a log, arms wrapped tight around herself, shaking.

Mollie exhaled sharply, relief and irritation tangling in her chest. “Jesus, I thought you drowned.”

Haley didn’t look up. Just swayed slightly, mumbling something into her lap.

Mollie took a cautious step forward. “What?”

Haley lifted her head, mascara streaked down her cheeks, lips glossy with spit. “I said, maybe I should have.” Then she let out a wet laugh and tipped sideways, nearly rolling off the log.

Mollie caught her just as she heaved forward, stomach convulsing, a sharp retch tearing out of her throat.

“Fuck,” Mollie muttered, barely managing to get Haley’s hair out of the way before she puked onto the dirt, gagging and coughing between sobs.

“Great,” Mollie added, rubbing slow, mindless circles into her back. “Awesome.”

Haley groaned weakly, wiping at her mouth with the sleeve of her sweater. She swayed again, then flopped back onto the log like a broken doll. “I don’t feel so good.”

“No shit.”

Haley let out another miserable laugh, then suddenly— “Alex and I are fighting.”

Mollie let her head drop back, staring up at the stars. “Yeah, I got that.”

Haley let out a breath, wobbling where she sat, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. “It’s—he—” She pressed a hand to her forehead like that would help her put words together. “He doesn’t want me anymore.”

Mollie blinked, watching the way she swayed, the way her face twisted, something between anger and devastation.

“I mean, he does,” she amended quickly, waving a weak hand, “but not—not in the way he used to.”

Mollie waited, knowing the words were spilling now, that Haley was too drunk to stop them.

“It’s been—fuck, I don’t know how long,” Haley slurred, pulling her knees up, dropping her forehead onto them. “Months. Since we—” She made a vague motion with her fingers, shaking her head. “And now he barely looks at me, he just—” Another hiccup, another weak laugh. "He’s not even trying anymore. I mean, he used to beg me, but now he just—. And I don’t—I don’t know what I want, but I know I don’t want him to stop wanting me. And I know how he is. If he’s not getting it from me…”

She trailed off, eyes flicking blearily up to Mollie, searching her face.

Mollie let the words settle, watching Haley’s expression shift, her throat working like she wanted to take them back but couldn’t.

And there it was.

The reason she had clung to him all night, the reason she had kissed him sloppily between drinks, the reason she had spent half the evening throwing back shots.

She was afraid. Afraid that Alex would go elsewhere. Afraid that elsewhere would be Mollie.

Mollie sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “You don’t have to worry about me, Haley. I don’t want him.”

Haley blinked, her glassy blue eyes darting over Mollie’s face, trying to find a lie in it.

Mollie only stared back.

Haley let out a slow, shaky breath. “Okay,” she mumbled, rubbing her nose on her sleeve. “Okay.”

They sat there for a beat, the firelight flickering across the bush, Alex and Sam’s voice trailing over to them, still locked in their game.

Haley hiccupped, then sniffled. “I don’t even know why I care,” she admitted, her voice softer, like she was talking to herself.

Mollie looked at her, at the way her nails dug into her sleeves. “Because you love him?”

Haley’s lip curled, like she wanted to argue, but instead she just let out a bitter laugh, curling her nose. “Gross.”

Mollie laughed. “Don’t you?”

Another beat of silence. Then Haley let out a long, miserable groan, staring at the vomit at her feet. “Ugh, get me out of here.”

Mollie stood, offering a hand. “Happily.”

Mollie half-carried, half-dragged Haley down the quiet streets of Pelican Town, her arm looped tight around the other girl’s waist to keep her upright. Haley was dead weight, her legs stumbling over themselves, her head bobbing dangerously close to Mollie’s shoulder. Every few steps, she’d lurch forward as if trying to propel herself faster, only to stop and sigh dramatically, forcing Mollie to readjust her grip.

“She’s really pretty, you know,” Haley slurred suddenly.

Mollie blinked. “Who?”

Haley wobbled, gesturing vaguely at the air. “The girl he dumped me for. The last one. Super pretty.”

Mollie hummed, keeping her focus on the path ahead.

“I mean, he came back,” Haley continued, “but still. The principle of it, you know?”

“Totally,” Mollie muttered.

Haley huffed out a bitter laugh. “Like, what does she have that I don’t?” She hiccupped, then answered her own question. “A stable job. Emotional maturity. Big tits.”

Mollie snorted. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

Haley shot her a glare, then softened almost instantly, leaning her full weight against Mollie’s side. “Listen,” she mumbled, words pressing warm against Mollie’s shoulder, “I know I can be a bitch. But can you stay over at mine? Please. I promise I’ll be nice.” After a beat, she let a sigh. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

Mollie hesitated. She was sweaty and exhausted, her buzz wearing off, her body aching for her own couch, her own fan wheezing in the corner.

Haley squeezed her arm. “If you say no, and I like, puke in my sleep and die, it’s on you.”

Mollie sighed. “Fine.”

When they finally reached the beige and orange house, Haley fumbled for her keys, nearly dropping them twice before Mollie took them from her and unlocked the door herself.

Inside, the air was thick with perfume and something floral, the scent of too many candles burned down to their wicks. Haley kicked off her sandals and stumbled toward her room, Mollie following behind, arms crossed tight over her chest.

Haley rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a pale pink hoodie and some sweatpants, tossing them in Mollie’s direction. “Here,” she said, voice sticky with exhaustion. “Change.”

Mollie sighed but peeled off her damp clothes anyway, pulling the hoodie over her head. It smelled like coconut and vanilla, like some overpriced lotion Haley probably slathered on before bed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and grimaced. She looked ridiculous.

Haley must have thought the same because she giggled, flopping onto her bed. “You look like a little baby strawberry.”

“Shut up.”

Haley just smiled, eyelids heavy, limbs boneless as she wheeled a second bed out from beneath her own. “Me and Abigail used to have sleepovers all the time,” she mumbled, already half-asleep as she settled into her blankets.

Mollie sat down stiffly, tucking her knees to her chest. She didn’t do sleepovers. Never had. Not even as a kid.

The only time she tried, she called her mom at 2 in the morning to come pick her up. Her mom did, swearing at her on the drive home.

Mollie listened to Haley talk, let her ramble on about Alex, about the past. She let her voice taper off into murmurs, let her breath even out.

And finally, as the first streaks of dawn bled through the curtains, Haley fell asleep.

Mollie didn’t.

She stared at the ceiling, at the faint, peeling glow-in-the-dark stars scattered above them. The room seemed frozen in time—pink and purple walls, childhood trophies gathering dust, a cluttered desk covered in tubes of lip gloss and half-empty bottles of expensive perfume. One wall was filled with printed photographs—some faded and curling at the edges, some sharp and new. On the other, old records were stacked above the bed, their covers facing out.

Mollie traced the spines with her eyes, surprised at some of the artists, at the mix of bubblegum pop and bluesy, aching ballads. Maybe she had misjudged Haley. Maybe, in the daylight, she would be just as cruel, just as cutting. But right now, passed out and clutching a pillow, she was just another girl trying to fill an empty space.

Mollie exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face.

She checked the clock on Haley’s desk—5:30 a.m.

She wasn’t going to sleep. Not here. Not now.

The hush of the ocean curled around the empty streets, steady and low, the tide rolling in soft and slow. The town was still asleep, windows dark, but the horizon was already waking—streaks of orange and pale pink bleeding into the navy sky.

She didn’t go home.

Instead, she followed the familiar pull toward the water, feet moving before she could think twice. The path to the beach was quiet, her sandals scraping against the dirt, the scent of damp earth and old wood shifting in the breeze.

When she reached the shore, she found what was left of the night before—the fire pit blackened and dead, the last embers gone out. The boys were gone. No voices, no drunken laughter. Just a circle of scattered beer cans, a few crushed into the sand, their labels peeling from the damp air.

Mollie sighed, crouching down to gather them. The aluminum was slick with condensation, sticky from whatever had spilled during the night. She tossed them into an abandoned cooler.

When the last can clattered into the cooler, she dusted the sand from her palms and sank onto a sun-bleached stump near the fire pit.

The horizon stretched wide before her, the water silver-blue in the early light. The ocean had always felt like a witness, like something old and knowing, watching without judgment. It had seen her drunk, high, lost. It had seen her silent, seen her crumpled in on herself after Michael, seen her when she felt like nothing at all.

She pulled the sleeves of the pink hoodie over her hands, curling them into the fabric. She wished suddenly to be at home.

The cabin wasn’t home.

This wasn’t home.

But the ocean didn’t ask anything of her. The birds didn’t demand anything. The waves didn’t care where she had been, who she had left behind.

And she, like Haley, didn’t want to be alone.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Lady Daydream

Harvey ran with the same dogged determination he applied to most things in life—slow, steady, methodical. It wasn’t about speed. It was about control. Each step hit the dirt with practiced rhythm, breath measured, heart keeping time like a metronome.

He had started running as a teenager, after his mother died. At first, it wasn’t intentional. Just one night, with the house too quiet, he walked out the front door and kept going.

And over time, it became habit. A ritual. Something to put his grief into that wasn’t alcohol, or anger, or sitting in silence with his father’s empty stare.

He was grateful for it now.

The air was clear this morning. No fog to soften the world’s edges, no mist curling at his ankles. Just sharp, open sky and the first hints of sun peeling up over the horizon, spilling pale gold across the wet sand. The ocean stretched before him, calm and endless, the tide dragging itself lazily up the shore.

And then, there—just ahead.

A lone figure, wrapped in pink, curled small against the vastness of the ocean. Her hood was up, face tucked away, but a few strands of hair had slipped free, catching the wind.

Harvey exhaled sharply through his nose. He slowed his pace, but didn’t stop. Maybe if he kept running, she wouldn’t notice him.

Then, she turned.

Even in the dim light of the morning, he knew it was her. Mollie Cooper .

He had seen her before.

That night at the Saloon, the storm had rolled in heavy and mean, shaking the windows, rattling the bones of the town. Rain hammered the roof, a steady, percussive rhythm against the low hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of glass. 

She had already been there when he arrived, curled into a booth near the back, soaked to the bone. A beer sat in front of her, condensation slipping in slow rivulets down the side, pooling on the worn wood. When she reached for it, the glass made a soft scraping sound against the table.

Harvey hadn’t paid her much attention at first—his mind too tangled in exhaustion, in the weight of the day pressing against his skull. He had wanted nothing more than a whiskey and some peace.

But he had felt it.

Her gaze.

The awareness crept up on him slow, like a shift in pressure before a storm breaks. A prickle at the nape of his neck. He wasn’t sure how long she had been watching before he noticed, but when he did—when his eyes flicked up, locking onto hers—she didn’t look away.

She just studied him, gaze sharp and steady, like she was cataloging something.

Harvey had looked away first. Quickly. Too quickly.

Then he had done what he always did when the world pressed too close—he retreated. Ordered one drink, maybe two, then left before he could feel her eyes on him again.

Now she lifted a hand, a small wave.

Harvey exhaled sharply through his nose. He was trapped.

He forced himself to wave back, then trudged toward her, sneakers crunching against the damp sand. He didn’t want to—he wanted to finish his run, wanted to go home and drink his coffee in silence—but it would be rude not to acknowledge her for a second time. That was the problem with small towns. You couldn’t just ignore someone and move on.

As he neared, she pushed back her hood, revealing the rest of her face.

He hadn’t really gotten a good look at her before. Not like this.

She was… pretty. Not in an obvious way. Her features were sharp, refined but not delicate. High cheekbones, full mouth, a slightly upturned nose that made her look perpetually unimpressed. The kind of face that made it seem like she had already decided she wasn’t interested in whatever you had to say.

Her eyes—blue, no, green—no, both—shifted like sea glass in the early light.

He swallowed.

She smiled. But only with one corner of her mouth, crooked and knowing. It made her look half-amused, half-skeptical. Like she had already figured him out.

“You’re Harvey, right?” she asked, voice low and rough, like she’d just woken up.

It shouldn’t have surprised him that she already knew his name. In a town this small, introductions were just a formality. But something about hearing it from her—just Harvey , no Doctor , no Doc —sent a ripple of something unfamiliar through him. People almost never called him that. Not even in passing. He wasn’t sure why it stuck to him now, the shape of it in her mouth, how easy it sounded. Like he was something else, someone else, outside the walls of the clinic.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how out of breath he was. “That’s me.”

Mollie nodded, still wearing that half-smirk, like she was waiting for something.

He shifted his weight. She was too comfortable, and that unsettled him. He was sweating, his shirt clinging to him unpleasantly, and he was pretty sure she had just glanced at it before flicking her gaze back up, unreadable.

He turned toward the water, pretending to study the horizon. “Up early for the sunrise?”

“Nah, couldn’t sleep.”

A beat.

“You?”

“Morning run.” His voice came out stiff.

And then, because he couldn’t seem to help himself, he asked, “Trouble sleeping, huh? You on anything for that?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Mollie’s brow furrowed slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she had heard him right.

Harvey sighed internally. Christ. Normal people didn’t just ask about a stranger’s medication history. He ran a hand through his damp hair, wincing at his own lack of social grace. “Sorry. Habit,” he admitted. “Doctor thing.”

Mollie tilted her head slightly, considering him. Then, slowly, deliberately—

“A doctor, huh?” she said, amusement flickering at the edges of her mouth. “Impressive.”

He blinked.

He couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or messing with him. Probably the latter. If she knew his name, she knew he was the town doctor—everyone did.

He cleared his throat. “Just doing my part to keep the town healthy.”

Mollie didn’t respond right away.

Instead, she kept watching him, gaze flickering over his face, searching for something, a smirk on her face.

"You know, it’s a bit rude of you not to ask my name."

Harvey frowned. What?

She watched him, still smirking. “I mean, I asked yours.” A small shrug. “Seems like basic manners.”

He blinked, thrown. Was she serious?

“I—” He shook his head slightly, flustered. “I already know who you are.”

Mollie gave a slow, approving nod. “Good save.”

He squinted at her, unsure if he had actually saved anything at all.

His watch buzzed against his wrist. An out.

He glanced down—his alarm. A reminder that he had responsibilities, that his morning was already slipping from his grasp.

“Anyway,” he exhaled, stepping back, needing to go before this conversation unraveled any further, “if you ever need something for sleep, or just a check-up, the clinic’s right next to Pierre’s.”

Mollie nodded, smiling faintly. “I know where it is.”

Harvey hesitated, then gave her a quick nod before turning on his heel and jogging away. His pulse was still too fast. But this time, it had nothing to do with the run.

The water ran hot, steam curling up against the tiles, fogging the mirror. Harvey let it pound against his back, eyes shut, breath slow.

He should have been thinking about the day ahead—the clinic schedule, the stack of paperwork waiting on his desk, the inevitable string of villagers who would ignore his advice. But his mind kept catching on something else.

Something small, insignificant.

A conversation that lasted no more than five minutes.

He exhaled, let his forehead press against his arm. He had been rude. He could admit that now, in the quiet. Not intentionally, but still. Too brisk. Too blunt. The kind of thing that normally wouldn’t bother him—except it did.

Because she had called him on it.

Not angrily. Not even annoyed. Just amused.

"You know, it’s a bit rude of you not to ask my name."

The memory slid through him now, annoyingly clear. The slow arch of her brow. The unhurried way she said it.

Harvey sighed, shut off the tap. Toweled off. Ran his fingers through damp hair. Shook his head.

Enough of that.

He changed quickly, rolling his sleeves, fastening his watch, slipping back into the rhythm of the day. By the time he made it downstairs, the morning was fully awake, the town stirring to life.

He unlocked the clinic doors, exhaled.

The desk was a mess.

Receipts, invoices, forms—piled high, slipping loose, overlapping in a way that would surely come back to bite him when he had to cross-reference them later. The printer had jammed twice, spitting out half-legible documents before sputtering to a stop.

Harvey pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled. He hated this.

Tax season.

A necessary evil. One that, unfortunately, fell on his shoulders. Maru was a brilliant nurse, but not an accountant. Not that he was an accountant either, but he had more experience wrestling with deductions, medical write-offs, and whatever the hell else the government wanted to pick apart this year.

So here he was.

Stuck between patient charts and the slow, mind-numbing death of paperwork.

He had been at it all day, in between appointments, trying to get through just one clean hour of work before someone came in with a rash or a sprained ankle. He’d hoped to finish by evening, but that was looking increasingly unlikely.

Maybe he’d stay late. Get it done in peace.

Still, he needed a break.

Harvey sighed, shoved the papers to the side. The screen saver on his monitor had kicked in—a slow, rotating Windows logo bouncing off the edges of the screen. He nudged the mouse, blinking as the display lit up.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. A few keystrokes. A familiar login page.

Facebook.

His profile was still the same. A picture of his bike leaning against the clinic. No personal photos. No updates. No vacation albums, no tagged memories, nothing that really said anything about him. But he didn’t need it for anything in particular. He just needed to turn his brain off for a moment, let himself sink into something easy, something mindless.

He scrolled, absently.

Same updates. Same small-town churn. Someone’s baby turned one. The Saloon was running half-priced appetizers on Thursday nights. Jodi posted another blurry photo of Vincent’s soccer game. An old friend from college with a pregnancy announcement. Some vaguely political rant from an uncle he had forgotten to unfollow.

Nothing of substance.

Harvey’s hand froze on the mouse.

A post from his ex-wife. Someone he’d meant to delete years ago, but for some reason, could not. Not that she had deleted him, either.

Engaged.

The word sat there, pinned above a photo—a grinning man, arm draped around her shoulders. The same man she had been with since before their divorce was even finalized. Before she even told him that’s what she wanted.

Harvey wasn’t surprised.

Not really.

But it still wasn’t the best sight to see.

His jaw tightened. His eyes lingered on the image longer than necessary. Not out of longing—just… something else.

Inevitable. That’s what it was.

She had moved on. Moved forward. Had never really waited in the first place.

And Harvey—

A knock at the door.

He blinked. Straightened, closed the tab in one quick motion.

Maru stood in the doorway, pulling her jacket over her scrubs.

“Heading out,” she said.

Harvey forced a small smile. “Good work today.”

Maru nodded, lingered. “You staying late?”

He glanced at the disaster on his desk, the pile of unfinished work still waiting for him. He should. He knew he should.

Before he could answer, Maru gave him a look. The kind that said she already knew what he was going to say.

"Just wondering," she continued, "because my mom invited you over for dinner. Again."

Harvey let out a breath of something close to a laugh. “Persistent.”

Maru smirked. “You have no idea.”

He shook his head, glanced down at the mess on his desk. It wasn’t even a lie when he said he needed to finish.

“Tell her thanks, but I’ve gotta get through this.”

Maru hummed, not quite buying it, but not pushing either. “You know she’s not going to give up until you actually show up one of these days.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know.”

And he did, once. Robin hadn’t stopped trying since the first year he moved to the Valley. She had tricked him, back then—posing a dinner invitation as a house call.

Something about needing advice on a splint for Demetrius. He had shown up, bag in hand, only to find a full table set, wine poured, an empty seat waiting for him.

It had been… nice. But awkward.

Not his family. Not even acquaintances yet. Just polite strangers eating pot roast.

Harvey had spent most of the night feeling like an intruder in someone else’s life.

So he tended to avoid discomfort where he could.

“Anyway,” Maru said, hitching her bag over her shoulder, “don’t work too late.”

He nodded, gave a small wave as she disappeared down the hall. The front door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone in the quiet.

Harvey sat still.

Listened to the quiet hum of the overhead light. The muffled tick of the clock on the wall.

Then, without thinking, he reached for the mouse.

Clicked the browser back open.

The engagement post was still there, sitting exactly where he had left it.

Harvey stared at it for a long moment.

Then, with something like finality, he reached for the power button. The screen flickered, then went dark.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: In Bloom

Summer in Pelican Town wasn’t a gentle thing—it was brazen, loud, unapologetic in the way it rolled in, scorching the dirt roads and turning the air thick with pine. The heat pressed down, heavy, turning the farm into a haze of dust and sweat, the scent of dry grass and rusted metal clinging to the air.

Mollie wiped sweat from her forehead, her arms aching from an hour of pushing the mower through the yard. Or what was left of it. Most of the land was still a patchwork of dead weeds and churned-up soil, broken fencing and overturned scrap catching the light like dull, jagged teeth. The greenhouse doors sagged, one barely hanging onto its hinges. The farmhouse itself stood tired, paint peeling in thick curls, windows clouded with salt spray and time.

It still looked like hell.

But at least it was starting to resemble a slightly more livable kind of hell.

She stretched, rolling out the stiffness in her shoulders, before her gaze drifted toward the truck. Shane was there, half-buried under the chassis, legs sprawled out like a dead thing, only the occasional flick of movement proving otherwise. He had been under there for the past hour, muttering to himself, the occasional clink of a wrench against metal cutting through the thick, insect-heavy silence.

Mollie leaned against the fence, watching him for a moment, her arms resting on the warm wood.

It was strange, the way they worked together. In town, Shane barely looked at her. If they passed on the street, he’d shove his hands into his pockets and keep walking, a fleeting shadow in the corner of her vision. But out here, on the farm, it was different. He’d show up without warning, say nothing about why, just get to work—hauling overturned tires, chopping wood, fixing the bones of the place, even if there wasn’t much worth saving.

They spoke in half-sentences and gruff acknowledgments. Neither of them asked questions. She didn’t ask why he helped, and he didn’t ask why she was even trying in the first place.

And it didn’t really matter, anyway. He worked. She let him. And the only thing he accepted in return was beer, which she was more than happy to provide.

Now, she watched as he let out a frustrated grunt, his boot scuffing against the dirt as he shifted.

"Everything good under there?" Mollie called, tilting her head.

There was a pause. Then, his voice, muffled. "If by ‘good’ you mean ‘a complete piece of shit,’ then yeah. Fantastic."

She smirked. "You think you can fix it?"

Another pause. Then, he rolled out from beneath the truck, wiping his forearm across his forehead, leaving behind a smudge of grease. His hair was a mess, his shirt damp with sweat, sticking to his collarbones.

"Probably," he admitted. "Needs a new battery, among a million other things. If you want it to actually run, it’s gonna take a lot more work."

Mollie shrugged. "Not like I have anywhere to be."

Shane huffed a quiet laugh.

Mollie grabbed a water bottle from the fence post and passed it to him. Without hesitation, he twisted off the cap and took a long drink.

Then, in return, he pulled a can of beer from the six-pack at his feet and handed it to her.

Mollie cracked it open and took a long swig. It was ice-cold, condensation slick against her fingers, the carbonation sharp on her tongue. 

She exhaled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and let herself settle into the moment.

They weren’t so different, her and Shane.

The case of beer was already digging into her fingers by the time Mollie stepped onto the main street.

It was busy today, at least by Pelican Town standards—shop doors propped open, window boxes spilling with early summer blooms, the air thick with heat and the faint smell of something fried drifting from the Saloon. A few familiar faces passed by, offering small nods or hesitant half-smiles. Mollie returned them where she could, but most of her focus was on the sweat gathering at the back of her neck and the growing awareness that carrying beer around town in broad daylight probably wasn’t the best look.

Not that she really cared.

She adjusted her grip on the case, debating whether she should grab something to eat before heading home, when movement up ahead caught her eye.

An older woman stood beneath one of the streetlamps, tugging at the large flower baskets hanging from its hooks.

Mollie slowed. The woman was small, wiry but sturdy, with neatly curled silver hair and a pressed floral blouse that looked too nice for the kind of work she was doing. She pulled again, grumbling under her breath, but the basket barely budged.

Mollie sighed.

She could keep walking. Should keep walking.

Instead, she shifted the beer under one arm and crossed the street.

"Need a hand?"

The woman looked up, surprised. Her gaze swept Mollie quickly—taking stock the way old people do, like they can see through you, past the years, right down to the bones of who you are.

Then she smiled. "Well, it's about time I ran into you."

Mollie blinked. "Uh—what?"

"You’re Mollie Cooper."

The way she said it, so certain, so familiar, made something twist in Mollie's stomach.

"Yeah," she said slowly. "That's me."

The woman wiped her hands on her skirt. "I thought so. I’d recognize those eyes anywhere."

Mollie braced herself.

Here it comes.

The inevitable you look just like your mother.

But the woman frowned, tilting her head slightly. “Spitting image of your father."

Mollie felt it like a sucker punch.

Her fingers tensed around the case of beer. Something in her chest pulled tight, like a knot that had been there forever but was suddenly being yanked loose.

She shifted her weight, clearing her throat. "Uh. Yeah. So. These flower baskets—?"

The woman hummed, eyeing her for a second longer before nodding toward the hooks. "The town replaces them every few months. I used to have help, but, well—you know how it is."

Mollie didn’t, but she nodded anyway.

Together, they wrestled the baskets down, Mollie using her height to unhook the stubborn ones while the woman grumbled about her stiff joints and how impossible it was to find decent help these days.

The work went fast, and when the last one was stacked neatly at her feet, the woman gave an approving nod. "Not bad."

Mollie wiped her hands on her jeans. "Yeah, well. I have an extensive resume in lifting things and putting them back down."

The woman laughed—a genuine, warm sound. "I believe it. Your mother wasn’t much for heavy lifting, but your father—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "Ah, listen to me, rambling. I haven’t even introduced myself properly. I’m Evelyn. I run the community garden and handle most of the flower displays around town. Not that many people notice these days."

Mollie smiled. "I noticed."

Evelyn looked at her thoughtfully, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I figured you might. You always did love my flowerbeds as a kid."

Mollie shifted the beer in her arms. She wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she didn’t.

Instead, she asked, "So, you do all this by yourself?"

Evelyn sighed, stretching her back with a wince. "Unfortunately. There used to be a whole committee for this sort of thing. Now, it’s just me." She dusted off her hands and glanced at Mollie again. "And you. For today, at least." Evelyn had already turned back to the flowers, inspecting the empty hooks. "Are you working in town?”

Mollie hesitated, then shook her head. "Not at the moment."

Evelyn made a soft noise, not quite surprise, not quite judgment. "Hmm."

Then, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, she said, "Well, I could use the help." Evelyn turned, glancing at the large garden to their left. “I couldn’t pay you, but I could feed you. And send you home with some baked goods for your help.”

Mollie opened her mouth to decline, the words already formed, but—

"Yeah, alright," she heard herself say instead.

Evelyn beamed. "Wonderful. Come by my place tomorrow morning. We’ll get started then."

Mollie nodded, still not entirely sure what she had just agreed to, but before she could dwell on it, movement from across the street caught her eye.

Sam was standing outside Pierre’s, squinting in their direction, like he was debating whether to get involved. Then, the moment he caught Mollie’s gaze, he grinned and waved.

"Friend of yours?" Evelyn asked, amused.

"Something like that.”

Before Evelyn could respond, Sam made the decision for them.

He strolled across the street with that same effortless confidence, hands tucked into his pockets until he reached them. Then, without hesitation, he draped an easy arm around Evelyn’s shoulders and gave her a conspiratorial grin.

"Well, well," he mused, casting a glance between them. "Didn’t know you had a sister, Mollie."

Evelyn smacked his arm, laughing. "Oh, hush, you."

Sam feigned injury, pressing a hand to his chest. "Ouch. That’s no way to treat your favorite one of Alex’s friends."

"You’re not even in my top five."

Unfazed, Sam turned his attention back to Mollie. "So what are you two scheming over here?"

Evelyn casually gestured toward Mollie. "She’s going to be helping me with the community garden."

At that, Sam whistled low, giving Mollie an appraising look.

"Wow. Hard labor? Never pegged you for the type."

Mollie rolled her eyes. "I can be helpful when properly bribed."

"Noted," Sam said, smirking. Then, suddenly, he clapped his hands together. "Well, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to steal her from you, Evelyn."

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Sam nodded solemnly. "She looks absolutely famished. Would be a shame if she collapsed from hunger right here in the middle of town."

Mollie snorted. "I’m pretty sure I’m fine."

"Too late," he declared. "Already decided. C’mon."

Before she could argue, he slung a casual arm around her shoulders, briskly steering her away.

"See you tomorrow, dear!" Evelyn called after them, laughing.

Mollie barely had time to shoot her a helpless glance before Sam was pulling her toward the Saloon.

She sighed, letting him drag her along.

Sam was already grinning when Mollie slid into the booth across from him, the kind of grin that felt too big for the room. It was stupidly warm, one he gave to everyone but felt like it was just for her in this moment. She hated that it made her stomach twist a little.

"Pepperoni pizza sound good?"

Mollie nodded, shrugged. "Sure."

Sam waved Gus over. The laminated menu stuck slightly to the table when he shifted it, edges curling from years of use, stained with the ghosts of old spills. Order placed, he leaned in, elbows on the table, chin propped in his palm, like he was settling in for something good.

"We've been missing you at band practice," he said, drumming his fingers against the chipped table. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap syncing with the low hum of voices and the faint clink of glasses from the bar.

Mollie squinted slightly. "I was there last week."

But he wasn’t wrong. She’d been hanging out there more than she expected to, nearly every other evening—sometimes with the whole group, though it was usually just her and Abigail, stoned and sunk deep into Sam’s ratty old couch, the kind that seemed permanently infused with the smell of weed and dirty socks. The cushions sagged in the middle, swallowing them whole as they melted into the worn-out plaid, eyes glassy, laughter lazy. Sam and Sebastian would be in the corner, goofing off with tangled cords and out-of-tune guitars, their voices competing with whatever shitty amp buzzed in the background. Sometimes Haley showed up, always smelling faintly of sunscreen, rolling her eyes but staying anyway. It was fun. Better than the cabin.

She and Sam talked a lot during those nights. About music mostly—his favorite bands, her reluctant opinions. They rarely agreed on what was classified as “good music”. When she’d get home, still sticky with the warmth of it all, her phone would buzz. A Spotify link. A song he’d mentioned offhandedly, or one he thought she’d like. Like he wanted to make sure she didn’t forget.

"Exactly! We’ve been missing you." That grin again, stretched wider now. "Well, mostly me."

She felt her mouth tug into a smirk before she could stop it, hiding behind the condensation on her water glass. The glass was slick and cool against her palms. "Been busy."

"Mysterious farm business?"

"Something like that."

It wasn’t mysterious. Just sad. But that didn’t seem like a fun addition to the conversation.

Sam rocked back on the rear legs of his chair, the wood groaning slightly under the shift of weight, like gravity was just a suggestion for him. "When do I finally get to see the farm, anyway?"

"It’s mostly just a pile of work and a large junk collection."

"I like junk," he said without missing a beat, letting the chair legs thud back down with a hollow scrape against the sticky floor. "Sebastian's room is basically a tech graveyard. I’m used to it."

The pizza arrived, hot and greasy, the cardboard box steaming slightly where the oil had already soaked through. Gus slid it onto the table with the kind of efficiency that said he’d done this a thousand times, the faint clatter of plates and the sharp tang of tomato sauce mixing with the faint yeast-and-sweat smell that clung to the Saloon’s old wooden beams. Sam dove in immediately, the cheese stretching in long, gooey strands as he tore into a slice, grease slicking his fingers without a care in the world.

There was something about the way Sam existed in the world—like gravity bent around him instead of the other way around. Everything rolled off him, easy and unbothered. Mollie felt like she was made of Velcro in comparison, snagging on everything sharp, every stray thought sticking whether she wanted it to or not. She wondered what that felt like. To be untethered.

"So, the Luau’s coming up," Sam mumbled around a mouthful of pizza, wiping his hands on a crumpled napkin that left a faint dusting of cheap paper fibers on his fingertips.

Mollie raised an eyebrow. "The what?"

Sam blinked. "You don’t know about the Luau?"

"Do I look like someone who knows about the Luau?"

"Fair point," he conceded, chuckling. "Big town thing. Dancing, drinks, food, more dancing. On the beach. Sometimes there’s a bonfire. Everyone goes."

"Everyone?"

"Anyone who matters." He took another bite of pizza. “Sometimes they have a roasted pig with an apple in its mouth. Well, they used to. It scared the kids too much last year so I don’t know if there will be one this year. But you have to come."

Mollie snorted. "Sounds like cultural appropriation."

Sam frowned mid-bite. "Huh?"

She shook her head, amused. "Never mind."

"Seriously, though," he said, swallowing. "You should come. It’s basically town law."

Mollie smirked. "Town law, huh?"

"Yeah," he said. "I don’t make the rules, Mollie."

She leaned back, considering him. He was so earnest, so warm. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to say yes. It was just that saying yes meant getting a little more woven into this place. It meant having to be surrounded by all these people . She’d have to talk and laugh and dance and eat. And she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

"I’ll think about it," she said.

Sam beamed like she had already agreed.

Mollie just sighed, shaking her head, a softer smile playing on her own lips.

"Anyway," Sam said, leaning forward just enough for his knee to knock against hers under the table. Casual. Like it didn’t mean anything. He let it linger there, let the bareness of their knees touch. "You owe me a dance."

"I do?"

"Yup. It’s the price of this pizza." He gestured dramatically at the half-eaten pie. "Luau. One dance. That’s the deal."

Her throat felt a little dry. She sipped her water, the coldness sharp against the sudden warmth crawling up her neck. He was flirting. That was obvious now, wasn’t it? She wasn’t too sure over the weeks if he had been, or if that was just who he was. How he carried himself. But he was, now, legs touching, eyes searching, body leaning towards hers. And it wasn’t bad, exactly. Just… complicated. Like it would be easier if he was an asshole.

"Seems steep," she said finally.

"I’m worth it," he shot back, deadpan, not even a hint of irony. He winked.

She rolled her eyes, but her heart felt annoyingly light. Like it’d forgotten who was in charge.

"Deal," she muttered, grabbing another slice to cover the way her fingers trembled slightly.

Sam pumped his fist like he’d just won something important. Maybe he had. Mollie wasn’t sure. But his smile stuck with her, lingering in the back of her mind. She wondered, briefly, what he’d be like in bed—if he’d grin like that, all warmth and ease, even then. Probably not.

While Mollie’s thoughts raced on, Sam glanced at his phone, his grin faltering just a little. "Shit—I’m late. I was supposed to be home twenty minutes ago to watch Vincent."

He scrambled up, shoving his phone into his back pocket and tossing a crumpled wad of cash onto the table, the bills landing with a soft thud next to the greasy pizza box. "Keep the change," he called over his shoulder to Gus, who barely looked up from wiping down the bar. He looked back at Mollie. “And you keep the pizza.”

At the door, Sam paused, spinning backward without missing a step. "Don’t forget—you owe me a dance!" he shouted, pointing at her like he was sealing the deal with an invisible contract. Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, the bell above it giving a tired jingle that faded too fast.

And then it was quiet.

Mollie stared at the empty space he’d left behind, the booth across from her probably still warm with the imprint of him—half a slice of pizza abandoned, his napkin crumpled into a lazy spiral. She let out a short breath of a laugh, small and unexpected, like it had snuck out before she could stop it.

She was still smiling. She caught it in the reflection of the dark window beside her, the curve of her mouth soft and unguarded, and for a second, she didn’t bother to wipe it away. It felt good. Stupid, but good.

Then, like flipping a switch, she straightened, pressing her lips into a line, as if that would somehow pull everything else back into place. This wasn’t anything. Just pizza and a promise to dance, one she didn’t even commit to. Just Sam being Sam. Nothing to overthink.

She bit into the crust of her pizza, her thumb grazing the faint condensation ring left by his Pepsi can. She grabbed his crumpled napkin and wiped it away

Mollie washed dishes with all the enthusiasm of someone performing an autopsy. The water ran too hot, scalding her fingers as she scrubbed at a pan she’d abandoned in the sink for too long, the soap slipping over her hands, the rhythm of it lulling her into something close to detachment. The window above the sink was cracked, the night air creeping in slow and cool, carrying with it the distant sound of the ocean, the occasional rustle of something moving in the woods. When she finished, she dried her hands on the hem of her shirt and stood for a moment, staring at her own reflection in the darkened glass.

The TV’s dull hum filled the silence as she collapsed onto the couch, flipping through channels. There were only a handful to pick from, most of them local, grainy, half-static. Gone were the days of scrolling through Netflix until something, anything, seemed tolerable enough to put on. She hadn’t decided whether or not to get WiFi. Nights like these made it seem like a necessity.

She settled on some cooking show. A woman whisked batter in a stainless-steel bowl, her voice too chipper for this hour. Mollie watched with a vacant sort of focus, trying to let the background noise settle her, but after a minute, her eyes glazed over.

The sound of the whisk scraping the sides of the bowl caught her off guard. It was small—barely a noise—but it snagged on something buried deep.

A memory surfaced, uninvited.

She was maybe eight. Standing on a chair dragged up to the counter, sleeves rolled too high, flour dusted across her cheeks and arms. Her father was beside her, leaning down slightly to match her height, his hands guiding hers as they cracked an egg into a dented mixing bowl. They’d made pancakes that day—burnt the first batch, laughed about it, tried again. He’d let her pour too much syrup over the stack. She couldn’t remember what they talked about. Just the way it felt. Easy. Light. Safe.

She never remembered doing anything like that with her mother. There were no memories of warm kitchens or shared bowls of batter. Only cold countertops and clipped instructions—if anything at all. Her mother had never had the time or the patience. Or maybe she’d just never wanted to.

It didn’t make sense, how short a time she’d had with him and how long those memories lasted. How clearly they stuck.

Her throat tightened.

She reached for her phone, fingers trembling slightly, needing something to anchor her—anything to pull her away from the sharp edge of it.

Her thumb moved on autopilot, scrolling through Instagram without really seeing anything—just faces, places, the same recycled snapshots of lives pretending to be more interesting than they were. She’d just liked a blurry photo from the beach Abigail had tagged her in when her phone buzzed with an incoming call.

Unknown Number.

She frowned, thumb hovering over the screen. She hadn’t bothered saving anyone’s numbers yet—not Abigail’s, not Sam’s—so she figured it was probably one of them. Maybe Abigail, bored and wanting to hang out. Maybe Sam with another song recommendation. The thought almost made her smile.

She answered without thinking. “Hello?”

Silence, just for a beat—long enough to feel like a mistake.

Then a voice, smooth and too familiar, slid through the speaker. “Look who’s finally picked up.” The words were casual, but the undertone wasn’t. There was always that edge, like he was more amused by her discomfort than anything else.

Her stomach dropped, the sound hitting like a punch to the ribs. She didn’t need to ask who it was. That voice was burned into her.

She didn’t say anything. Just ended the call, her thumb pressing harder than it needed to.

The silence afterward felt sharp, like glass. She stared at the screen, waiting for it to light up again. It didn’t.

She exhaled, long and shaky, thumb hovering over the call log. Then she blocked the number.

Not that it would matter. She’d already blocked his real number weeks ago, after getting tired of being woken up at 2 a.m. by the sharp, rattling buzz of her phone on the nightstand.

She’d thought blocking him would be the end of it. But he was always good at finding ways to show up where he wasn’t wanted.

Mollie shut off her phone, tossed it onto the coffee table, and tried to focus on the woman now spooning batter into muffin tins with slow, practiced movements. But her vision blurred—not with tears, just that distant, untethered zoning out that happened when her brain decided to float away from the thoughts, the memories.

She stood up before she could second-guess it. Pulled on a pair of shoes, shrugged into one of her grandfather’s old coats—soft with years of wear, still carrying the faintest scent of cedar and dust—and stepped outside.

The sun had set hours ago, and the only light came from the moon, a sickly yellow against the ink-dark sky. Mollie walked without thinking about where she was going, breath curling in front of her in slow, shuddering exhales. With shaking fingers, she lit a cigarette, inhaling deep, letting it sting her lungs, burning away the weight pressing against her ribs.

As she walked, she saw Marnie’s farm float pass her in her periphery. Then the dugout south of it. Mollie looked up from her feet and at the water, the glint of the moon on it. A figure hunched on the dock. Shane.

He glanced over his shoulder as she approached, lifting a beer in silent acknowledgment. Mollie didn’t say anything, just sat beside him, the wood of the dock rough and damp beneath her. She passed him a cigarette. He took it, lit it with a flick of his lighter, exhaled slow.

“Up late, huh?” His voice was gravel.

“Yeah, what’s new,” she muttered. She noticed his feet were bare, ankles submerged in the dark water. “Are there leeches in there?”

He snickered, shrugged. She hesitated, then tugged off her boots, then her socks, rolling her jeans to her knees before slipping her feet into the pond. It was colder than she expected, sending a sharp chill up her legs, but she didn’t pull away. It felt like the water was reeling her back into herself.

Silence stretched between them, the croak of frogs the only sound filling the empty space. Mollie’s eyes drifted to the pile of empty cans beside Shane, the already finished six-pack crumpled and discarded like a graveyard, an unopened six-back next to it.

He caught her looking. “Here,” he said, handing her a fresh beer. “Might as well join me.”

She took it, cracked the can, and tipped it back without thinking. The alcohol hit her stomach fast, warm and numbing. Shane chuckled, shaking his head. “Rough night?”

Mollie smirked, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I should be asking you that.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh, tapping his cigarette against the wood. “You know. Life. ”

Mollie nodded. Yeah. She knew.

He took another slow drag, exhaled through his nose. “You ever feel like… no matter what you do, you’re gonna fail? Like you’re stuck in some miserable abyss, and you’re so deep you can’t even see the light anymore?”

Mollie turned to him, caught off guard by the sudden shift—by the weight in his voice. It was probably the longest thing he’d ever said to her that didn’t involve her broken-down truck.

He didn’t wait for her answer. “I just feel like no matter how hard I try… I’m not strong enough to climb out of that hole.”

She could have said something. Could have offered up some empty reassurance, some platitude about things getting better. But she didn’t. Because she knew exactly what he meant. She just nodded in response.

Shane handed her another beer when hers was finished. She didn’t hesitate. Cracked it open, took a long sip.

“You drink fast,” he said, amused.

She rolled her eyes. “You gonna lecture me?”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They drank. They sat in silence. Let the night stretch out long and slow, let the weight of their collective fuck-ups settle between them. The alcohol loosened something in her, made her feel lighter, if only for a moment.

“Just don’t make it a habit,” Shane muttered after a while, eyes fixed on the water. “A kid like you still has a future.”

Mollie scoffed. “I’m 24, Shane.”

“Yeah, well, I’m 29. You keep drinking like this, you’ll end up like me. Sitting on an abandoned dock at midnight, spilling your guts to some kid.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. “At least you’ve got good company.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. You’re alright, Cooper.”

Shane finished his beer, stretched, grabbed his shoes. “My liver’s calling it quits for the night. I should too.” He pocketed a few empty cans, leaving one last full beer beside her. “See you around.”

Mollie watched him stagger off, disappearing into the trees, leaving her alone with the frogs and the moon.

She sighed, picked up the last beer, and cracked it open.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Calling Dr. Love

The dirt was dry, brittle under Mollie’s fingers, crumbling like stale bread as she yanked at the stubborn roots of a weed that refused to let go. The sun was indifferent—hanging there like it had nothing better to do, burning through the thin veil of clouds, turning the community garden into a patchwork of heat and shadow. Sweat gathered at the back of her neck, slipped down her spine, glued her shirt to her skin in damp, itchy patches. Her arms were pink with sunburn, the kind that lingered even after the sting faded, a souvenir from too many days spent outside. She didn’t mind it. The simplicity was the point—dig, pull, breathe. Repeat. No room for thinking.

She’d been doing this for days now. Mornings spent yanking weeds from stubborn soil, afternoons hauling watering cans, evenings sitting on Evelyn’s porch with sunburned knees and the faint buzz of exhaustion settling into her bones. The rhythm of it all had snuck up on her, stitched into the days without her realizing.

Evelyn hummed beside her, a soft, tuneless sound, the kind of filler noise people made when they’d grown too used to their own company. She moved with the efficiency of someone who didn’t question the why of things anymore—just did them because that’s what you did. Mollie didn’t mind. The chatter, the silence. Both were easy.

“These weeds are relentless,” Evelyn muttered, squinting against the glare as she wrestled with a stubborn root. “You’d think after all this time, they’d get the hint.”

Mollie snorted softly, wiping sweat from her temple with the back of her hand. 

Evelyn sat back on her heels, stretching her back with a quiet groan. “I swear this garden fights me harder every year. Used to be easier when I had help.”

Mollie didn’t ask who she meant. Didn’t need to. She could fill in the blanks—people who’d left, people who’d died, people who got tired of sticking around. Evelyn talked about them all often.

Evelyn’s gaze drifted across the rows of half-tamed soil, her hands still resting in her lap. “Your grandpa used to be out here all the time. Frank loved this garden. Thought he could grow anything if he just worked hard enough.”

Mollie’s fingers stilled, tangled in the roots of a weed that wouldn’t let go. She didn’t say anything, just kept pulling, like the silence would fill itself if she gave it long enough.

Evelyn didn’t notice—or pretended not to. She kept going, her voice soft against the buzz of distant cicadas.  “I remember when your dad used to visit—back when he and your mom were teenagers. He always looked uncomfortable here, like the dirt might reach up and grab him if he stayed too long.”

Mollie’s jaw tightened, her grip on the garden tool white-knuckled. “Sounds about right,” she muttered, voice flat, pressed thin between her teeth. “Probably why he never came back.”

Evelyn hummed softly, not missing a beat. “Well, some people don’t know how to stay, even when they want to.”

That did it.

Mollie yanked at the weed harder than she needed to, her grip slick with sweat. The hoe in her other hand slipped, metal edge catching her palm, slicing deep before her brain caught up.

Blood bloomed fast, dark and vivid against the pale dirt, seeping between her fingers like it was trying to escape her.

“Shit,” Mollie hissed, dropping the tool, clutching her hand out of instinct more than anything else. The pain followed a beat later—sharp, hot, pulsing in time with her racing heart.

Evelyn was beside her in an instant, hands steady as she reached for Mollie’s wrist. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine,” Mollie snapped, jerking back, but the blood was already pooling, warm and slick, running down her wrist, dripping onto the soil in fat, lazy drops. The sight made her dizzy—not fear exactly, just that sudden rush of heat behind her eyes, the metallic tang of it thick in the back of her throat.

Evelyn’s eyes were wide as she looked to Mollie’s hand. “Oh dear. Stay there, let me grab something for the blood.” Blood . Mollie’s stomach turned, and she continued to avoid eye contact with her hand. One look and she’d certainly pass out. She felt her finger begin pulsating and she was suddenly concerned she chopped the damn thing well off.

Within moments, Evelyn returned with a dishrag in tow. “Here, honey. Let me clean you up.”

Mollie tried to protest, but Evelyn had already grabbed her hand, pressing the rag against the wound. Mollie dared a glance. Despite the pressure, the blood kept coming, soaking through, bright and angry.

“Oh dear, you’re turning pale,” Evelyn murmured, voice calm but moving faster now. She gave up trying to clean it and instead wrapped the rag tight, twisting it into a makeshift tourniquet. The sudden pressure sent a jolt of pain up Mollie’s arm, sharp enough to make her gasp.

The edges of her vision blurred. The sky felt too bright.

“Okay, that should help for now,” Evelyn said, standing up, all brisk efficiency. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” Mollie mumbled, eyes shut, focusing on breathing— don’t pass out, don’t pass out.

“Yes. To the clinic. You need stitches.”

The word stitches hit like another wave of nausea. The handsome, standoffish doctor flashed in her mind, which somehow made it worse. She groaned softly, like maybe that could undo all of it.

Evelyn didn’t wait for agreement. She was already hauling Mollie to her feet, surprisingly strong for someone who looked like she’d blow away in a stiff breeze. Mollie’s legs felt disconnected, her body sluggish, like she was moving through water.

“Okay, up we go. That’s it. One foot in front of the other.”

Mollie’s head spun, her stomach churning as she focused on the ground, on the rhythm— left, right, left.

Evelyn held her arm up, keeping it elevated, her other hand pressing around Mollie’s hand to slow the bleeding. They made slow progress down the street, and Mollie couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “About your shirt. Ruined it.”

Evelyn snorted, not missing a beat. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Still. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. It’s blood. It washes out.”

“Does it?”

“Mostly.”

Mollie tried to laugh but it came out thin and breathless. She focused on the sway of Evelyn’s steps, the way their shadows stretched out ahead of them, long and distorted under the afternoon sun. Behind them, a trail of dark red marked the sidewalk, dripping like breadcrumbs.

The clinic door swung open with a jarring chime, the fluorescent lights inside buzzing like angry insects. The shift from sun to sterile white walls made her stomach lurch, her vision narrowing at the edges, everything too bright, too loud.

Voices floated in from down the hall—Harvey’s, low and even, explaining something about antibiotics, and Sam’s, brighter, easy, like the world wasn’t spinning just slightly off-kilter. She didn’t catch the words before Evelyn’s voice cut through, sharp and urgent, explaining— accident, garden hoe, a lot of blood.

Maru appeared from behind the front desk, her face shifting from bored to alert in an instant. “Doctor Harvey!” she called, her voice too loud, echoing off the walls, bouncing around Mollie’s skull.

Harvey emerged almost immediately, his expression blank until his eyes landed on her. Then something flickered—quick, gone before she could name it. His gaze dropped to the blood-soaked rag clutched against her palm, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

Mollie tried for a smile, something to prove she wasn’t about to keel over, but it felt weak, brittle, like her face might crack under the effort.

“Sorry to bother you, Doctor Harvey,” Evelyn said, her voice calm, too calm, like they weren’t tracking Mollie’s blood across the floor. “We had a little accident.”

Mollie opened her mouth to add something sarcastic, something to fill the space, but Sam’s voice cut in before she could.

“Holy fuck, what happened?!”

Vincent, peeking out from behind Sam with wide eyes, was quick to chime in, “Swear jar!” Vincent’s eyes grew even wider when he noticed her hand. “Whoa! Is that blood?”

Mollie bit back a laugh. It would’ve tipped into hysteria if she’d let it. She didn’t.

Harvey ignored them both, already moving toward the sink to wash his hands, his movements sharp, efficient. “What happened?”

“Garden hoe,” Evelyn answered simply.

Mollie tried to shrug, like it was no big deal, but the motion made her head swim. Sam was suddenly there, hovering, his hand near her back like he wanted to steady her but wasn’t sure if he should. She waved him off with a flick of her wrist, regretting it immediately when another rush of warmth spilled through the cloth.

Harvey’s hands were gloved now, his voice softer when he turned back to her. “I need to get you to an exam room before you pass out.”

Mollie’s pride bristled. “I’m not gonna pass out.”

“Good,” he replied, deadpan. “Let’s keep it that way.”

His hand found her elbow—firm, not rough—guiding her toward the back. His touch was different from Evelyn’s—less familiar, more clinical—but it still grounded her in a way she didn’t like.

“Want me to come with?” Evelyn’s voice sounded behind them.

Mollie shook her head, forcing a tight smile toward her. “Nah. Go home, Evelyn. You should give that shirt a rinse before my blood stains it for good.”

Evelyn snorted, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be fine, dear. Deep breaths. At least you still got your hand.”

Mollie let out something that was supposed to be a laugh but came out closer to a wheeze.

Harvey guided her down the hall, his hand a steady weight at her back. Sam’s voice trailed after them, light and careless, trying to cut through the tension. “Call me when you’re good!”

Mollie managed a faint “Yup,” though the hallway was already starting to blur at the edges.

Mollie sat on the crinkly paper lining the exam table, her hand cradled against her chest, the blood-soaked rag damp and warm against her palm. She could still feel the dull throb beneath it, like her body’s way of reminding her she’d fucked up.

Harvey moved around the room with quiet efficiency, dragging over a small metal tray filled with medical tools. His face was unreadable—clinical—but she caught the faint crease between his brows, the tight line of his mouth. He didn’t look up at her, and for some reason, that irritated her.

“This might sting,” he said, crouching slightly to her level. His voice was low, steady, the kind of voice meant to calm people down. It didn’t.

His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, the fabric creased just so, revealing tanned skin, the faint trace of veins running down to his wrists. 

Harvey peeled the rag away, slow and careful. The sticky pull of dried blood against fabric made her stomach turn, but she kept her face blank, staring at the water-stained ceiling tile above.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

She snorted, though it came out thin and tight. “Not exactly what you want to hear from a doctor.”

That pulled the corner of his mouth into something almost like a smile. Brief. Gone before she could pin it down.

“You’ll need stitches,” he said, his tone flat, like it was just another Tuesday.

“Yeah. Figured.”

He cleaned the wound, the sting of antiseptic sharp enough to make her hiss. She clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Not that he was looking—his focus was locked on her hand, his brows knit in concentration.

“This’ll numb it,” he said, holding up a needled syringe.

“Great,” she muttered. “Always wanted to be stabbed twice in one day.”

This time, he actually smiled—a real one. Small, quick, but it stuck around just long enough to be noticeable. He had nice teeth. 

The needle slid in, sharp and fast, a burn that faded almost as soon as it started. Mollie stared harder at the ceiling.

“Sorry,” she muttered after a beat. “I’m not usually this squeamish. Blood’s just… not my thing.”

Harvey’s hands were steady as he prepped the suture kit, his fingers deft, sure. “You’re doing fine. I’ve seen grown men faint at the sight of a paper cut.”

She huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Good to know I’m not special.”

He didn’t reply, but she saw the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth again.

When he started stitching, it felt strange—a dull tugging, pressure without pain. She kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, but her eyes kept drifting back to him. To the curve of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble.

His hand brushed against her wrist, light and quick, but it sent a stupid little jolt up her arm. She ignored it. Mostly.

“How bad is it?” she asked, still avoiding looking at her hand.

“Well, the cuts are deep,” he said, his voice softer now. “But no major damage. You got lucky.”

“Yeah. Lucky’s the word.”

He glanced up then, just for a second, meeting her eyes. His face softened slightly. She gave him a crooked smile to fill the space, and to her surprise, he smiled back— quick but genuine. It made something strange and warm settle low in her chest.

The room felt too small.

“This might feel weird,” he said, poking gently at her finger. “Any pain?”

She shook her head, her throat suddenly dry.

“Good. Almost done.”

The room fell into a quiet rhythm—Harvey’s steady hands, the soft pull of thread, the occasional rustle of fabric. The silence wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

After a minute, he cleared his throat. “I think I owe you an apology.”

Mollie blinked, caught off guard. “For what? The stabbing?”

That made him smile again, shaking his head slightly. “No. For… that awkward introduction at the beach. A few weeks ago.”

She snorted. “Didn’t realize it left an impression.”

His smile faded a little, replaced by something softer. “It did.” He cleared his throat again. “I hope I didn’t come across as rude. Just didn’t expect anyone on the beach that early.”

Mollie shrugged, like it was nothing. Because it was. Probably. “No big deal.”

Silence permeated the room again after that.

When he finished, he sat back slightly, peeling off his gloves with a soft snap. Mollie’s eyes went to his hands. No wedding ring. “You’re all set.”

She flexed her fingers experimentally, the skin tight and foreign. 

“How much do I owe you?” she asked, pulling her wallet from her pocket with her good hand. “I don’t have insurance, so…”

Harvey blinked, like the question surprised him. “Oh. Don’t worry about it.”

She frowned. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, suddenly busy with stacking supplies. “Consider it… a part of the Pelican Town welcome package.”

Mollie didn’t push it, just tucked her wallet away and moved toward the door.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, and she paused, glancing back. His hand was half-raised, like he was going to say something else, but then he just let it drop.

“Come back in a week so I can take the stitches out,” he finished, voice quieter.

Mollie gave him a lazy salute. “Yes, sir.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Outside, the sun was too bright, the air too warm against her skin. Her heart was still racing, but it had nothing to do with blood loss.

Later that night, Mollie sat on the edge of the bed, flexing her stitched hand carefully. The skin pulled tight around the bandage, the ache dull but steady—a faint, rhythmic throb that flared every time she moved. She rotated her wrist slightly, feeling the tug where the stitches held everything together. It wasn’t the worst pain she’d felt, but it was persistent enough to keep her from ignoring it.

The bed felt strange beneath her, too soft after weeks of avoiding it. She’d been sleeping on the couch since she got here, the sagging cushions and lumpy armrest somehow easier than this—less permanent. The bed felt like admitting something. Like giving up the idea that she was just passing through. But the couch was doing a number on her back, and after the clinic, she didn’t have it in her to argue with herself about it.

Her laptop sat on her lap, screen casting a faint glow across the room. She wasn’t sure when she’d pulled up his profile—probably somewhere between boredom and curiosity. Harvey Wright. The name felt strange in her head, too formal.

The page was private, of course. Just one photo—a bike leaned against the clinic, the sky flat and gray in the background. No smiling faces, no beach vacations, no cryptic quotes about life. Just a bike. Like that’s all there was to say.

Mollie chewed absently on her thumbnail, staring at the screen. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. A detail, maybe. Something to fill in the blanks. A clue about the man behind the careful, practiced politeness and the quick, flickering smiles that felt like they slipped out without his permission. But there was nothing. Just the bike, the clinic, and the quiet impression of someone who didn’t leave much behind unless he had to.

She flexed her hand again, wincing at the pull, then set the laptop down beside her. The screen dimmed, then went dark, leaving her with the faint hum of the old house, the ache in her palm, and the hollow space of a bed that still didn’t feel like hers.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Sexy to Someone

The mower droned across the yard, sputtering once like it might give up before settling back into its rhythm. Mollie sat on the porch steps, beer in hand, the bottle sweating against her fingers. Her stitched-up hand rested on her thigh, still tender, the skin pulling a little every time she flexed her fingers, so she didn’t bother much with that.

Shane moved in slow, steady passes, cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth, one hand on the mower handle, the other shoved into his pocket. He didn’t look over, and she didn’t expect him to. They hadn’t talked about the other night at the dock, which felt like the right choice. Some things didn’t need to be picked apart. They just happened, and then you mowed the lawn.

The sun was sitting low enough to throw long shadows, stretching the outline of the porch railing across the uneven grass. Mollie took another sip of her beer, the taste a little too warm, but it was fine.

Her phone buzzed against her leg. Abigail.

She let it vibrate once, twice, then answered.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Abigail’s voice was clear, like she was somewhere with open windows. “You coming to Sam’s or what?”

Mollie glanced out at Shane, who was turning the mower in another lazy arc, cigarette ash barely hanging on.

“Yeah,” she said after a beat. “Heading out now.”

She hung up, stood, and finished the last of her beer. The bottle made a dull clink when she set it down on the porch rail.

Shane killed the mower, the sudden quiet making her ears buzz for a second. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, then flicked the cigarette into the dirt.

“Thanks,” Mollie said, nodding toward the yard.

Shane shrugged. “No problem.”

She hopped on Maru’s old bike and left it at that.

The garage smelled like old wood, motor oil, and whatever cheap cologne Sam insisted wasn’t his but definitely was. The rest of the group had left a while ago—Sebastian’s drumsticks abandoned in the corner, Abigail’s half-empty soda sweating on the amp. Mollie should’ve left too, but Sam had asked her to stick around. Said he wanted to show her something. She didn’t argue.

Now she was perched on the edge of a dusty loveseat, picking at the loose threads on her jeans, her stitched-up hand resting gingerly in her lap. It still throbbed, but had started to itch, the healing process settling into the palm of her hand.

Sam sat across from her, hunched over his guitar, tuning it with the kind of focus that made his forehead crease. His blond hair kept falling into his eyes, and he kept pushing it back with quick, impatient swipes.

“I’m just saying,” he started, plucking at a string, “Jeff’s the better Buckley.”

Mollie rolled her eyes. “You’re delusional.”

Sam’s grin spread slow and easy, like he was proud of it. “ Grace is basically perfect. The dude was a visionary.”

“Visionary? Please. Overrated is a better word for it.”

Sam stopped tuning long enough to stare at her like she’d just admitted she enjoyed the taste of battery acid. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little.”

“That’s—” He set the guitar down like it offended him, arms flailing slightly. “That’s an objectively bad opinion.”

Mollie shrugged, leaning back, letting her head rest against the wall. “Maybe your taste is just basic.”

Sam groaned, flopping back onto the stool, arms crossed. “I can’t believe I’m friends with someone who thinks this.”

She didn’t correct him—didn’t say they weren’t exactly friends, acquaintances at best, because it felt like too much work.

“You’re impossible,” he added.

“I get that a lot.” Mollie smirked.

He picked up the guitar again, strumming out a few chords, softer now. Not the usual loud, messy stuff he played when he was trying to impress the group. This was quieter, slower—like something he didn’t expect anyone to hear.

Mollie tilted her head. “What’s that?”

Sam kept his eyes on the strings. “Just something I’ve been messing around with. Not really band material.”

She nodded slowly, listening to the way the notes stretched out, thin and kind of beautiful in their own uneven way. “It’s good.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, like he’d been waiting for her to say that even if he didn’t know it.

“You play anything?” he asked after a beat, looking up.

Mollie snorted. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “Never felt the need.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Here,” he said, patting the spot next to him. “C’mere.”

She hesitated. Every part of her wanted to say no, make some sarcastic comment, keep the distance intact. But she didn’t. She got up and dropped onto the stool beside him.

Sam grinned, brighter than necessary, and shifted closer, slinging the guitar into her lap. His arm brushed against hers, warm even through the thin fabric of her shirt. He reached around her, adjusting her hands on the strings, his fingers brushing against hers, calloused and sure.

“Relax your grip,” he murmured, his breath light against her temple.

She tried to focus on the guitar, on the strings, but all she could feel was him—close, solid, too much. His hands lingered longer than necessary, fingertips grazing her skin.

“Okay, now strum.”

She did. It sounded terrible.

Sam laughed softly, the sound vibrating through her like static. “Natural talent,” he teased.

She turned her head to glare at him, some sharp reply ready to go, but the words got stuck somewhere behind her teeth. They were closer than she realized. His face just inches from hers. His hands still on hers, not guiding anymore, just there.

His gaze flicked to her mouth, quick but not quick enough.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning in slightly, his breath warm against her cheek, “but I think you’re just scared of being great at something.”

Mollie’s heart did this weird stutter-step thing, heat blooming low in her stomach. Sam was sweet—too sweet. The kind of sweet that had no business lingering around someone like her. She should’ve put an end to this, to the little flirtation they had going on, because someone like him was too open, too easy, too good. She didn’t want to pull him into her mess. But she didn’t pull away either.

Instead, she turned her head slightly more, her eyes meeting his.

“You don’t know me well enough to say that,” she replied, her tone playful, but there was something sharper beneath it—a challenge.

“Maybe not,” Sam admitted, his gaze steady, his voice softer now. “But I’d like to.”

The words hung there between them, light and heavy all at once. Mollie didn’t rush to fill the silence. She let it sit, fragile and unfamiliar, like if she moved too fast it’d shatter.

Sam’s eyes flicked to her lips again, but he didn’t move closer. Just stayed there, his hands still resting lightly on hers, his expression open in a way that made her chest tighten. He was waiting—for her to decide where this was going.

She stepped forward, breaking the tension, the sudden space between them feeling bigger than it was. Sam cleared his throat, shifting back, his fingers curling around the guitar as he pulled it into his lap with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he muttered, strumming a random chord to fill the quiet. “Didn’t mean to, you know… make things weird.”

“It’s fine,” Mollie replied, too quickly, her voice sharper than she intended. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to anchor herself back in something familiar. “No big deal.”

Sam let out a short laugh, shaking his head like he was trying to clear something out—maybe the tension, maybe the fact that it had been there at all. His fingers picked at the guitar strings, not playing anything real, just noise to fill the space.

“So, uh,” he started, eyes fixed on the frets, “you coming to that party this weekend? Abigail mentioned it earlier. Some guy from high school—Zach? He’s having people over.”

Mollie nodded, already grabbing her bag, her jacket from where she’d tossed it over the arm of the couch. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The air in the garage felt heavier now, too warm, like the leftover heat from the day had nowhere to go. She shoved her arm through her jacket sleeve too fast, catching the edge of her bandage, making her wince.

Sam nodded, his foot tapping against the floor, a nervous rhythm that didn’t match the lazy chords he was still half-playing. His smile was softer now, like it had lost its footing.

Mollie moved toward the door, her steps quicker than they needed to be. “Alright, see you.”

She didn’t wait for him to say anything back, but he did anyway.

“Yeah. See you.”

The door creaked as it swung shut behind her, the cool night air hitting her face, sharp and sudden. She sucked in a breath, shoving her hands deep into her jacket pockets. The gravel crunched under her boots, the sound too loud in the quiet.

She didn’t look back. Just kept walking, her mind already cataloging ways to put some space between them. Maybe skip the party. Say she had chores to catch up on, even though she wouldn’t. Maybe just not answer the next time he called. It’d be easier. Cleaner.

One thing about Mollie was certain: she lacked any real willpower to say no to parties.

It was exactly the kind of terrible she’d expected, which somehow made it worse. Mollie stood near a collapsing bookshelf, clutching a lukewarm Solo cup, mentally laughing at herself for showing up after her very official plan to not show up. All those imaginary excuses—chores, sudden illness, existential dread—forgotten the second Abigail had knocked on her door with that look that said, don’t make me drag you.

Now she was here, pressed against a wall that was suspiciously sticky, in a house packed too tightly with people who hadn’t done anything special since they graduated high school. The bass from the shitty speaker in the corner rattled through the floor, some remix of a song she hated on principle. The air smelled like spilled beer, cheap cologne, and a hint of something burnt—maybe weed, maybe someone’s attempt at cooking earlier. Hard to tell.

Abigail had vanished ten minutes ago, swallowed by the crowd with a promise to “grab another drink” that was clearly code for “I’m abandoning you.”

Haley stood next to her, furiously texting. Mollie leaned over slightly, not subtle, but subtlety wasn’t really her thing.

Alex.

Of course.

“Where’s lover boy tonight?” Mollie asked, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the music.

Haley didn’t even blink. Just rolled her eyes, locked her phone with a sharp, annoyed click, and muttered, “Who cares.”

Her gaze then drifted over the room, scanning the crowd like she was searching for something—or someone. Mollie figured it was probably Alex, but didn’t say it. No need to poke the bear when the bear was already texting aggressively.

Then Haley’s posture shifted slightly, her expression softening in a way Mollie almost missed. “Be right back,” she mumbled, already weaving through the mass of bodies.

Mollie watched her head toward the sliding glass door, stepping outside into the hazy glow of a porch light. Haley made a beeline for a redheaded girl sitting on the steps—Leah, if Mollie remembered right. She’d seen her around town but never with this crowd. Friends? Maybe. Or maybe something else. Mollie took another sip of her drink, letting the thought drift away like everything else.

She was already buzzed from pre-gaming at Haley’s, which had seemed like a good idea at the time. Less thinking, more drinking. Foolproof.

She was mid-sip when she saw Sebastian weaving through the crowd, his usual look of mild disdain firmly in place, like the entire party was a personal inconvenience. It made her laugh—just a short breath out her nose—but it felt real.

“Thank god,” she muttered as he reached her, tipping her cup in a lazy salute. “Everyone else left me to fend for myself.”

Sebastian smirked, raising his own cup in a half-hearted cheers. “You look like you’re doing great.”

“Oh, yeah. Thriving.”

They stood there, not talking, not needing to. Just watching the chaos unfold like it was a bad reality show they’d both stumbled into. Some guy in a backwards hat was trying to impress a girl with his knowledge of craft beer, even though he was holding a Natty Light. A couple was arguing in hushed, angry whispers near the bathroom door. Someone knocked over a lamp. No one seemed to notice.

Seb took a sip of his drink, then glanced at her sideways. “Where’s Abigail?”

Mollie jerked her chin toward the kitchen. “Hunting for cheap vodka.”

He nodded as if that made perfect sense. Which, to be fair, it did.

After a beat of silence, Seb said, “Sam’s been looking for you all night.”

Mollie sighed, tilting her head back against the wall, staring up at a ceiling fan that wasn’t even on. She’d been dodging Sam since they walked in—spotting his blond head bobbing through the crowd and immediately finding an excuse to go the other way. 

No attachments. That was the rule. The only one that mattered.

Seb glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “You know he likes you, right?”

Mollie scrunched up her face, his words sour in her head. “Don’t do that.”

Sebastian chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s not that bad.”

“I know,” she muttered, staring into her cup as if the answers were floating at the bottom. “I’m just… not exactly open for business right now.”

Seb nodded slowly, like he got it. And weirdly enough, she knew he did.

Before either of them could say anything else, Abigail reappeared, emerging from the crowd like some chaotic, purple-haired mirage, holding a half-empty bottle of suspiciously cheap vodka triumphantly over her head.

“ Guess who found the good stuff! ” she yelled with a large grin on her face.

Mollie snorted. “Define ‘good.’”

Abigail ignored her completely, already unscrewing the cap with her teeth.

Seb just shook his head, muttering, “We’re all gonna die,” before taking another sip of his drink.

Mollie didn’t disagree.

The porch railing was cool against Mollie’s palms, the chipped paint rough where her fingers gripped tight. Her head spun, not in that fun, tipsy way, but in the too-much, too-fast way. She took a shaky breath, the air thick with damp grass and the faint, sour tang of spilled beer wafting from somewhere nearby.

The fourth pull from the vodka bottle hadn’t gone down as easy as the first three. It sat heavy now, burning at the back of her throat, threatening to make a reappearance. She’d made it outside before it could. No way was she fighting through a bathroom line packed with drunk strangers.

She blinked at her phone—9:47 p.m.

Mollie snorted softly. Not even ten. She hadn’t been this drunk in a long time. There was something about it she liked though—the way her thoughts felt lighter, unpinned. The nausea was annoying, sure, but the rest of it—the floaty, loose part—wasn’t bad.

She closed her eyes, letting the breeze cool the sweat along her hairline.

Then—a hand on her back.

She flinched, muscles tensing, but when she turned, it was just Sam, leaning against the railing beside her. His face was flushed, his grin a little too loose. Definitely drunk.

“Been looking for you,” he said, voice rough from drinking, beer sloshing slightly in the cup he held.

Mollie smiled without thinking, wide and easy in the way only alcohol could manage. “Well, here I am.”

Sam chuckled, shifting closer. “Hiding out?”

She shrugged. “Something like that.”

“You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

He grinned, looking down at his cup like he’d forgotten it was there. “Fair.”

They stood there for a second, not saying much, just the muffled thump of music bleeding through the walls behind them, mixed with the distant sound of someone shouting too loud in the backyard. She recognized the song—some old Arcade Fire song, one she listened to too much in high school.

Sam looked at her again, his grin softening. “You’re hard to find, you know.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” she lied, fingers tightening around the porch railing.

He gave her a look, one of those quick, sideways glances that said he didn’t believe her but wasn’t going to bother arguing. Mollie looked away, out at the street where cars lined up, headlights washing over the lawn where people were sprawled out, drinks in hand, voices carrying sharp and loose into the night.

She felt suddenly shy, which was stupid because she was drunk and didn’t get shy when she was drunk. But there it was, sitting in her chest anyway.

“You know,” Sam started, fiddling with his cup, sloshing what little was left. “I’m glad you moved here. You make the town feel more fun.”

Mollie smirked, cocking an eyebrow. “You think I’m fun?”

He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t say you were fun. Just that you make the town more fun.”

She huffed out a laugh, loud and sudden, the sound surprising even her. “Fair enough.”

When she looked back at him, he wasn’t meeting her eyes, staring somewhere past her shoulder, like he was thinking too hard about something simple. He looked like he wanted to say more, but the words got stuck somewhere between his mouth and the bottom of his cup.

“Well,” she said, swaying slightly, the ground feeling not quite where it should be. “I’m glad I did too. You’re fun.”

He looked back at her again, smiled. And just as the air felt like it might settle into something, someone stumbled into them from behind—a blur of drunk limbs and bad balance. Sam’s drink tipped, spilling warm beer onto both their shoes.

“Shit,” Sam muttered, whipping around to glare after whoever it was, but they were already gone, swallowed by the party. He shook his head, turning back. Mollie just laughed, too loud, sharp against the muffled bass thumping from inside, against the dark. It wasn’t even that funny, but it felt funny in the way things do when you’re drunk enough not to care.

Her laugh caught Sam too. He grinned, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe her, but laughing anyway.

“There go my new clean shoes,” he sighed, dramatic, glancing down at his soaked sneakers.

“Tragic,” Mollie managed between giggles.

He looked back at her, something softer in his face now. His hand came up, quick and careless, tucking a loose strand of hair back from where it’d slipped out of her braid. His fingers brushed the side of her face, light and warm.

“You’re really pretty.”

Mollie felt her face heat—not a full blush, just enough to notice. She scoffed, trying to shake it off. “You’re really drunk, Sam.”

“Drunk words are sober thoughts,” he shot back, grinning, his confidence slurred but solid. He leaned in, closing the space between them without asking.

Mollie didn’t move. She let him in her bubble of solitude.

His hand slid from her hair to her hip, fingers curling there like it was something he’d done before. She liked the way it felt—simple, easy. Liked the heat of it, the pull. Her body leaned in without asking her mind for permission, that warm, buzzy feeling spreading through her chest and lower, like an echo of something waking up.

His fingers drifted from her hip, tracing a path back up, then along her jaw, tilting her chin slightly so their eyes met.

Mollie swallowed.

She knew what was coming.

And that’s when her stomach lurched.

Sharp. Immediate.

She jerked to the side, doubling over the railing as she threw up into the bushes below. The sound was awful—loud and wet—cutting through the night as if it had been waiting for the perfect, most humiliating moment.

“Oh shit,” Sam blurted as he reached for her hair, pulling it back gently, his hand warm against the back of her neck. People nearby made noises—someone muttering, “ Gross ,” another voice laughing, “ Oh fuck, she’s wasted .”

Mollie didn’t care. She was too busy trying to breathe between the awful, retching sounds, her hands gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

When it was over, she stayed there, forehead resting against her arm, the world spinning in slow, nauseating circles.

“Well,” she croaked after a minute, her voice raw and thin. “That’s one way to kill the mood.”

Sam let out a nervous laugh, shaky and thin. “I’ll, uh—I'll go get Abigail.” He hesitated, leaning down a little. “You gonna be okay?”

Mollie nodded without looking up, her head still resting against the railing. The world was spinning now, ruthless.

Sam’s arm was hooked around Mollie’s waist, not because she needed it, but because he insisted. She’d told him she was fine—twice, actually—but he’d just grinned, shrugged, and kept his arm there as if it was non-negotiable. And privately, she didn’t mind. His hand was warm against her side, fingers resting lightly, not possessive, just… there.

Her steps were steady enough, though her head felt like it was floating slightly above her body, thoughts swaying in time with the faint buzz of leftover vodka. The night air was cool against her flushed skin, sharp enough to pull her halfway back to reality, the sheen of sweat from the party cooling into something clammy along the back of her neck.

“God, that was the worst,” Abigail muttered, kicking at a stray can on the sidewalk. She pulled out her phone, thumbing quickly through texts. “Haley’s still not answering. So much for our sleepover.”

Mollie didn’t have the energy to listen, or to care. Her focus had narrowed to the small circles Sam traced lazily against her ribs with his thumb—light, almost absentminded, but enough to make her stomach twist. Not from the vodka this time. Or maybe it was. Hard to tell.

She swallowed hard, feeling the warning signs—nausea creeping back—but nothing came of it. Thank god .

Abigail glanced back at them, frowning slightly. "She can’t stay at mine. My dad’s home and he’s a dictator about ‘unexpected guests.’" She paused, thinking. "Maybe we should just walk her home?"

Mollie groaned, her head dropping back dramatically.

Sam scoffed, tightening his arm slightly around her. "Yeah, no way she’s walking twenty minutes like this."

"I can walk," Mollie protested, though even she didn’t sound convinced.

“Sure,” Sam said dryly, glancing down at the uneven sidewalk ahead. “Until you face-plant into a mailbox.”

Mollie grumbled something under her breath, but didn’t push it.

“Just crash at mine,” Sam offered, like it was the simplest solution in the world.

Abigail nodded like that made perfect sense. “Yeah. Better than waking up in a ditch.”

Mollie sighed, her breath fogging slightly in the cool air. "Fine. But only because I don’t want to die in a ditch."

As they passed the Saloon, movement caught the corner of her eye—a figure shrugging into a jacket beneath the dim glow of the streetlight.

“Oh shit,” Abigail muttered, her voice sharper now. “It’s Doctor Harvey.”

Mollie’s reaction was instinctive, immediate. She straightened up, pushed away from Sam’s hold, her legs remembering how to function all at once. The sudden rush of sobriety—or something like it—flooded her.

Abigail leaned in, whispering with a grin, “Absolutely do not puke. If you do, he’ll force you into the clinic. Probably make you drink, like, Pedialyte or something.”

Mollie snorted softly, the laugh more reflex than genuine, but it settled her stomach, even if just for a second. "Noted."

Harvey’s silhouette grew clearer as they approached. He glanced up, his expression neutral, but his mouth tipped into a small smile when he recognized them. Sam was the first to speak, his voice still too loud from drinking.

“Hey, Doc!” he called, lifting a hand in a lazy wave. “Out saving lives?”

Harvey chuckled in return. “Something like that,” he replied, his gaze flicking over the group, pausing briefly—barely—for Mollie before shifting away again.

Mollie felt heat rise in her face, sudden and unwelcome. She tucked her hair behind her ear, fingers shaky, hoping she didn’t look like someone who’d thrown up in a bush an hour ago. Do I smell like it? She resisted the urge to check.

“Fun night?” Harvey asked, his voice touched with quiet amusement.

Abigail snorted. “Oh, a blast.”

Harvey’s mouth quirked, a half-smile that didn’t quite settle. “Well, get home safe.”

His eyes met Mollie’s then—brief, but longer than necessary. It felt pointed, like the words were meant for her even though he’d said them to all of them.

Mollie nodded, her throat dry, heart racing for no good reason.

Sam’s house was quiet when they stumbled inside, the faint creak of the old door echoing just a little too loud against the silence. Mollie kicked off her boots, missing the mat entirely, and let out a soft huff of breath, her head swimming with just enough alcohol to make the floor feel like it had a pulse.

The place was modest, lived-in, with small signs of family tucked into every corner—shoes too small to be Sam’s near the door, a worn jacket slung over the back of a dining chair, school papers scattered on the counter. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something sweet, like syrup that had dried into the wood grain of the kitchen table over the years.

“This way,” Sam mumbled, steering her toward the narrow hallway, careful not to be too loud. His mom and Vincent were probably asleep.

Mollie followed, fingers brushing the wall for balance. Sam’s room was small, cluttered but not messy—guitar picks scattered across the desk, a stack of old magazines leaning dangerously sideways on the nightstand. Posters were tacked lazily to the walls, their corners curling from age.

Her gaze drifted to a photo pinned crookedly above his dresser. She stepped closer, squinting against the dim glow of the bedside lamp. It was of Sam, Abigail, and Sebastian, all awkward limbs and toothy grins, clearly from middle school—or close to it. Abigail’s hair was its natural dark brown, her smile full of braces. Sebastian looked the same as he did now—stoic, unimpressed—but softer somehow, less weighed down. Sam was in the middle, grinning like he didn’t know life could be anything but good.

Mollie reached out, lightly tugging the photo from the wall. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before she could stop it.

Sam noticed, coming up beside her with an easy grin. "God, that picture’s ancient."

"You look like a dork," Mollie said, voice lighter than she expected.

"Thanks," he replied, the sarcasm lazy but warm. He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, the faint mix of cheap beer and drugstore shampoo lingering in the air between them.

They stood like that for a second, the quiet stretching thin but not breaking. Then Mollie moved to step toward the bed, her foot catching on the edge of a hoodie half-buried under a pile of clothes. She stumbled slightly, enough to throw her off balance.

Sam’s hand shot out, catching her by the arm. "Careful there, drunky pants."

His voice was teasing, but his grip was solid, grounding. Mollie let out an unexpected giggle—a soft, girlish sound that felt strange in her own mouth. Sam’s hands lingered a beat too long, sliding from her arm to her waist.

She cleared her throat, gently pulling away, pretending to adjust her shirt as she dropped onto the edge of his bed. The mattress creaked slightly under her weight.

Sam stayed standing, shifting from one foot to the other, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with himself. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, his grin fading into something quieter, less sure.

"Hey," he said, voice softer now. "Can I ask you something?"

Mollie raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly on her palms, the faint buzz in her head making the ceiling seem farther away than it should’ve been. “You just did.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but his smile was softer this time, a little nervous around the edges. He moved to sit beside her on the bed, resting his arms on his knees, looking sideways at her.

“Do you—” He stopped, exhaled through his nose, looked away, then tried again. “Is there, like… someone back in the city? A boyfriend or whatever?”

The question landed softer than she expected, but still sharp around the edges. She hesitated, picking at a loose thread on her jeans.

"No," she said eventually, her voice light. "Not anymore. There was. But he’s out of the picture."

Sam nodded. He swallowed, his gaze dropping for a second before meeting hers again.

"Is that why you’re…" He trailed off, searching for the right word, then gave a half-smile. "I don’t know. Hard to read, I guess."

Mollie’s lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. “Maybe I’m just an asshole.”

But Sam didn’t laugh. He just looked at her, searching for something. “You’re not.”

Mollie didn’t know what to do with that, so she shifted on the bed, trying to shake the weight of his words. “Well, you don’t know me that well.”

“Maybe,” Sam said, his voice lower now, quieter. “But I meant it when I said I wanted to get to know you.” When Mollie didn’t respond, he continued after clearing his throat. "I like you, Mollie," Sam said quietly, his thumb fidgeting with his duvet. "I’ve been trying to not make it a thing, but… I do."

Mollie wasn’t good at this part—the part where things got real, where someone wanted something from her that wasn’t just surface-level. His words were simple, but they hit her harder than they should’ve. Not because she felt the same—but because she didn’t.

She didn’t like Sam like that. But she liked that he liked her.

Mollie swallowed the lump in her throat. "Sam…"

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor. "I just—" He gave a short, frustrated laugh. "I really want to kiss you."

Mollie’s stomach twisted—not with excitement, but something closer to guilt. She forced a smile, trying to make it seem lighter than it was. "Not now."

The words came out softer than she meant, not sharp or dismissive—just true. She didn’t want to kiss him right now. But she didn’t want him to stop wanting to. And maybe she’d want to kiss him too, eventually.

"Not never," she added quickly, as if that would soften the blow. "Just… not right now."

Sam let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "You’re really confusing, you know that?"

Mollie shrugged, her smile turning into a smirk. "Yeah, well, it keeps things interesting."

He stared at her for a second longer, then shook his head with a tired smile. He got up then, headed for the door. "I’ll take the couch."

Mollie watched him for a second, the way he hovered near the doorway. The room felt too quiet all of a sudden, the kind of silence that pressed in.

"You don’t have to," she blurted, the words out before she could stop them. "I mean… it’s a bed. It’s fine. It doesn’t have to be, like, a thing."

Sam hesitated, his hand still on the doorframe. His face softened, that boyish uncertainty flickering beneath the surface. He gave a small nod, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

"Okay.”

The room was dark, save for the faint sliver of moonlight creeping through the gap in the blinds, casting thin lines across the floorboards. Mollie lay on her side, facing the wall, the rough texture of the old paint inches from her face. She could hear Sam’s breathing behind her—steady, measured, perhaps already asleep.

There was space between them. Not much, but enough. The kind of space that made its presence known, that filled the room louder than any words would’ve.

She stared at the wall, eyes unfocused, her thoughts restless. She could feel him there, not touching, but close enough that if she shifted just slightly, her back would brush against his arm. 

Mollie almost willed it—willed him—to roll over, to reach out, to place an arm around her, pull her in like she wasn’t the one who’d drawn the line in the first place. But he didn’t. Because Sam wasn’t that kind of guy. He took no as an answer.

And she didn’t want to think about what it said about her—that in that quiet, restless space between them, that she wished he wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Comfort, Edge

Mollie sat in one of the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room of the clinic, her leg bouncing with a nervous energy she couldn’t quite shake. 

Her stitched-up hand rested in her lap, wrapped loosely in fresh gauze from her half-hearted attempt at “keeping it clean.” The skin beneath felt tight and itchy, the kind of discomfort that made her want to pick at it just to feel something different.

Maru was behind the front desk, typing away at the computer, her focus sharp. She’d greeted Mollie when she walked in— “Hey, Mollie. He’ll be with you soon.” That was ten minutes ago. The faint buzz of a small radio in the corner filled the space, playing some soft, forgettable song. A fan in the opposite corner spun lazily, pushing warm air around unhelpfully.

Mollie tried to still her leg, pressed her palm against her knee, but the movement came back as soon as she stopped thinking about it. She wasn’t nervous. Not really. Just… restless.

Though restless wasn’t the reason why she avoided coming in, days after she should have.

The door to the exam rooms creaked open, and Harvey stepped into the room, scanning the space before his eyes landed on her. His expression was neutral, professional, but there was something in the way his gaze paused, just for a second, that made Mollie’s heart kick up a notch.

“Hey, Mollie,” he said, his voice even, with that quiet calm he always carried. “You’re here for your stitches?”

No, I’m here for the ambiance.

She swallowed the retort, stood instead, nodding her head. “Yeah.”

“Come on back,” he said, holding the door open for her.

“I’m going to start removing them now,” Harvey said quietly, his voice even, professional. “You might feel a slight pull, but it shouldn’t hurt.”

Mollie nodded, her gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder, trying not to focus too much on the way his fingertips brushed against the inside of her wrist. His bedside manner was good—better than good. Calm, patient, like he knew exactly what to say without overdoing it. That was rare. In her experience, doctors either spoke in clipped, rushed phrases or not at all.

They’d been mostly silent since she sat down, the occasional instructions from Harvey the only thing breaking the quiet. But then his voice did something different—less clinical, more casual.

“Looked like you had a good night the other evening,” he said softly, not looking up, his attention still on the careful work of pulling the small black threads from her skin.

Mollie’s mouth twitched. “I may or may not have just puked in a garden bush like ten minutes before you spotted us.”

Harvey’s hands paused for the briefest moment, then he huffed out a soft breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly as he refocused on her hand.

“Well,” he murmured, “it happens to the best of us.”

Mollie tilted her head slightly, her voice softer, almost teasing. “Has it happened to you?”

He finally glanced up, just briefly, his eyes catching hers before shifting back to her hand. “Not recently.”

Mollie smirked, trying to ignore the quick little spark that came with that fleeting glance. “Lucky you.”

Harvey finished the last stitch removal with meticulous care, his touch feather-light as he smoothed the edges of the small wound. Then he stood, peeling off his gloves with a soft snap before crossing to the small sink in the corner. The faucet squeaked slightly as he turned it on, the rush of water filling the quiet space.

He spoke as he washed his hands, his voice low and even, rattling off something about tissue healing, avoiding heavy strain for a few more days, watching for signs of infection. Mollie heard the words, but they felt distant, like background noise to the sudden absence of him—his hands, his quiet focus. The space between them felt bigger now, the air thinner, lighter in a way she didn’t like. She found herself wanting him to sit back down, to touch her again—not out of necessity, but just because.

Harvey dried his hands, then turned, his eyes meeting hers briefly before flicking away. "I realized I haven’t had a chance to add you to the clinic’s files yet,” he said, his tone casual but with that underlying precision he always seemed to carry. “Technically, I haven’t done a proper check-up with you either. We could get that out of the way now, if you’re okay with it."

Mollie swallowed, her throat feeling unexpectedly dry. "Sure.”

Harvey pulled a clipboard from the counter, flipping to a blank form. He sat back down, his pen poised. "Okay. Any major medical history I should know about?"

Mollie shook her head. "Not really."

"Do you smoke?" His eyes lifted briefly, just a flicker of contact before dropping back to the form.

"Yeah."

"How often?"

She shrugged. "A few a day. More if I’m stressed."

He nodded, jotting it down. "How often do you drink?"

Mollie gave a small, dry laugh. "Less often than it probably seems."

That earned the ghost of a smile from him, but he didn’t pause. "Any family history I should be aware of?"

The question landed like a small, sharp stone in her chest. She hesitated, her jaw tightening just a little. "My mother’s an alcoholic."

Harvey’s pen paused for the briefest second before he glanced at her, his expression softening. "I know these questions are a bit impersonal. Sorry. Just need it for the records."

Mollie nodded, brushing it off even though it lingered. "Yeah, it’s fine."

"And your father?" he asked, his voice gentler now, like he was trying not to step on something fragile.

She debated telling Harvey about how he’d shot himself just a few months earlier. That had to mean he was struggling with something—someone doesn’t just shoot themselves on a random Sunday while watching TV.

But instead, she only said, “I don’t know.” After a beat, her tone flat. “He wasn’t exactly around.”

Harvey didn’t push, just nodded again, scribbling something down..

"No," she said. Then, after a pause: "I have an IUD."

She could feel the heat rising in her face and immediately resented it. There was no reason for this to feel awkward—she wasn’t easily embarrassed, and yet her body hadn’t gotten the memo.

"Okay," he said, scribbling it down without a flicker of reaction. "Sexually active?"

"No." The flush lingered, stubborn and unwelcome.

"Last menstrual cycle?"

Mollie shifted in her seat, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of her skin. "About a week ago."

She hated this. Hated the clinical nature of it, hated that it was him asking. She wished, now, that her doctor was some old guy with a receding hairline and coffee breath. Not him. Not Harvey with his soft hands and gentle voice and eyes that felt like they saw more than she wanted to give away.

Harvey reached for his stethoscope, looping it around his neck with a casual familiarity. "You probably already know this," he said, his voice low and even, "but you really should quit smoking."

Mollie huffed out a short laugh. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

He didn’t bite, just gave a faint smile and stood, sliding the rolling stool back with his knee. “Can’t say I didn’t do my part.”

She watched as he adjusted the stethoscope, the movement smooth and practiced. When he stepped closer, the small space between them felt like it got even smaller. His hand brushed the hem of her shirt, fingers warm against her skin as he lifted the fabric slightly.

“This might be cold,” he murmured, sliding the stethoscope up her back.

It was cold, but not enough to distract her from the way his hand settled lightly at her side, steadying her. The touch wasn’t anything—just clinical, necessary. But her skin buzzed like it was something. She stared straight ahead, her breath hitching slightly before she managed to smooth it out.

"Deep breath."

She inhaled, slow and deliberate, the sound of it louder than she expected. The metal of the stethoscope shifted slightly as he moved it lower, fingers brushing the edge of her ribs. It wasn’t intentional. It couldn’t be. But it lingered longer than it needed to.

Another deep breath.

She did as he asked, trying not to notice the warmth of his hand or the faint scent of soap and something faintly herbal—like tea or maybe whatever lotion he used. She tried not to think about how close he was, how easy it would be to lean back just an inch.

But she didn’t.

Harvey adjusted the stethoscope again, sliding it to the other side, his hand following the curve of her waist.

"Breath in."

She did, her chest rising, the tension sitting somewhere just below her collarbone.

“Sounds normal,” he said finally, pulling back.

The loss of his touch was immediate, the cool air rushing in where his hand had been. Mollie let out her breath, quick and controlled, willing her pulse to settle as he moved back to the sink, reaching for the hand sanitizer without looking at her.

She flexed her fingers against her thigh, grounding herself in the familiar sting of the healing cut. Just skin. Just a check-up.

Harvey scribbled something in her chart, his pen scratching softly against the paper. “Alright, you’re good to go.”

Mollie stood, brushing her palms against her jeans, but didn’t move toward the door. She hovered, fingers twitching at her sides. A hollow pause stretched between them, filled with nothing but the faint buzz of the overhead lights.

He didn’t look up, still writing. Maybe that was why she didn’t leave yet—because he wasn’t looking.

She shifted her weight, her mouth opening slightly like words might fall out on their own. They didn’t.

Eventually, he glanced up, brow lifted just enough to ask without asking.

Mollie cleared her throat. “Uh, thanks.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, polite but easy. “No need. Just doing my job.”

The weeks passed in a rhythm Mollie hadn’t expected. Not quite routine—she’d never been good at those—but something close. There was an ease to the way days slipped into each other, marked by small, familiar anchors: mornings spent tugging weeds from the stubborn earth with Evelyn, afternoons with dirt still under her nails, walking home with the smell of sun-baked grass clinging to her skin. Abigail’s texts arrived like clockwork, always casual, always with some half-baked plan—beach days, Saloon nights, or just aimless wandering. Haley’s sharp-edged presence became more familiar, less grating, like a song Mollie had grown to tolerate, then secretly liked.

She’d been avoiding Sam with quiet precision. Not dramatic or obvious—just subtle shifts. Leaving gatherings a little earlier, sitting on the opposite side of the room, laughing a little too hard at something someone else said to fill the spaces where he might’ve. It seemed to work. Sam was busy anyway, between work and band practice, and she told herself he hadn’t noticed. She hoped he hadn’t.

It was the kind of night Mollie would’ve said no to a few months ago—no excuse, just no. But here she was, sitting cross-legged on Haley’s bedroom floor, a chipped mug of cheap red wine cradled between her hands. Abigail lounged beside her, flipping through an old magazine she clearly wasn’t reading, and Haley sat opposite them, her back against the dresser, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders.

The room smelled like candles burned down to the wick and the sharp, tangy scent of nail polish from earlier. A playlist hummed quietly in the background—something indie, all melodic vocals and too much reverb. The overhead light was off, the only glow coming from a string of fairy lights taped haphazardly along the wall.

Abigail was mid-story, hands animated as she described some local guy they’d gone to high school with—Lucas? Logan? Mollie wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. She liked the sound of their voices more than the content, the easy rhythm of friendship she wasn’t sure she’d missed until she found herself in it.

Mollie picked up her mug, squinting at the design. A cheap tourist cup, the kind you’d find in an airport gift shop—bold letters spelling MOROCCO with a faded camel etched beneath.

She tilted her head slightly, curiosity loosening her tongue. “When were you in Morocco?”

Haley snorted, the sound sharp and sudden. “I wasn’t.” She tapped her chipped mug against Mollie’s with a smirk. “My parents sent it.”

The words carried that same sharpness Haley always wore, but something softened around the edges—like the armor didn’t fit as snug tonight. She twisted the mug in her hands, fingers tracing the chipped rim, her gaze distant for a beat longer than usual.

“They’re always off somewhere,” Haley added, her voice quieter now, not quite meeting Mollie’s eyes. “Thailand, Morocco, Greece—wherever looks good in postcards. They send back crap like this, like it makes up for the fact that they’ve been gone since I was, like, fifteen.” She shrugged, the motion too casual to be anything but forced. “Emily and I basically raised ourselves.”

Abigail didn’t jump in to fill the space, didn’t smooth over the rawness. She just nodded slightly, reaching for her own mug, letting the words settle without trying to fix them, already in the know of Haley’s home life.

Mollie stared at her wine, swirling it absentmindedly. She didn’t say anything—what was there to say? Yeah, I get it felt too small. Same here felt too big. But she felt something. A connection she wasn’t expecting, threaded through the quiet like an invisible string.

She took a sip, the wine warm and sour.

The quiet didn’t last long.

“Anyway,” Haley said, shaking off whatever vulnerability had crept in, her voice snapping back to its usual sharp edge. She took a sip of her wine, then leveled Mollie with a look that had too much curiosity tucked behind it. “Tell us about Sam.”

Mollie blinked, furrowing her brow like she hadn’t heard her right. “What about Sam?”

“Oh, come on,” Haley groaned, stretching her legs out and crossing them at the ankles. “You know exactly what I mean. We’ve been dying to know.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Mollie replied, swirling her wine lazily, focusing on the way it clung to the sides of the mug rather than the expectant looks being shot her way.

Abigail rolled her eyes dramatically, flopping onto her back with a huff. “Seriously? Nothing? You literally had a sleepover with him like, what, two weeks ago?”

Mollie raised an eyebrow. “Sleepover? I didn’t braid his hair and tell ghost stories, if that’s what you’re imagining.”

Haley snorted into her wine, nearly spilling it. “Okay, but something had to have happened.”

Mollie shrugged, keeping her face neutral. “Nothing happened. We were drunk. I slept over. That’s it.”

Haley squinted at her, like she was trying to read the fine print on Mollie’s face. “You expect me to believe you shared a bed with Sam Nelson and nothing happened?”

“Yes,” Mollie said flatly, popping the ‘s’ with a sharpness that made Abigail chuckle.

Abigail flopped back dramatically, groaning into the carpet. “You’re literally no fun. Just admit you made out or something. Give us something .”

Mollie shrugged, her face carefully neutral. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Abigail propped herself up on her elbows, her expression a mix of disbelief and amusement. “Isn’t he, like, super into you though?”

Mollie took a long sip of wine, savoring the brief silence it gave her. “That’s his problem, not mine.”

Haley burst out laughing, the kind of sharp, unapologetic laugh that filled the room. “You’re such an ass.”

Mollie smirked into her mug. “Takes one to know one.”

Abigail flopped back down, groaning into her arm. “God, you’re so annoying. Just admit you like him.”

Mollie tilted her head thoughtfully, pretending to consider it. “I like… that he’s not here right now.”

Haley nearly choked on her wine again. “Wow. Cold.”

Mollie shrugged, but there was an edge of honesty beneath the sarcasm, a flicker of something she didn’t feel like unpacking tonight. “Look, it’s not that deep. Sam’s… fun. But I’m not looking for anything.”

Abigail made a soft ‘mm-hmm’ sound, clearly unconvinced but letting it go.

Mollie stretched her legs out, the cool floor grounding her. She let her head fall back against the edge of Haley’s bed, staring up at the ceiling, where the faint shadows from the fairy lights danced lazily along the glow in the dark solar system. The girls moved on to a new topic, but Mollie’s mind drifted—first to Sam, his easy grin, the warmth of his attention, always right there, waiting. Then, to the ever elusive Doctor Harvey. The sharp contrast. His hands steady and detached, the fleeting brush of his fingers against her ribs under the clinical glow of fluorescent lights. Both touches lingering in different ways, for different reasons.

The wind picked up when Mollie tucked herself into bed, a low, guttural thing that dragged its breath along the edges of the house. It rattled the loose shingles like teeth chattering against brittle gums, slipping through the cracks in the window frame with a thin, whining hiss. The draft crept across the floorboards, curling around her ankles even beneath the blanket.

She’d been lying there for hours, shifting from one uncomfortable angle to the next, sheets twisted around her legs. Sleep was a ghost she couldn’t catch, always just out of reach, dissolving the second she got too close. The more she chased it, the more awake she felt—her mind buzzing with static, thoughts sharp and brittle.

Mollie wondered where she got it from—this gnawing, persistent insomnia. If it was just a quirk in her wiring or something stitched deeper into her. Her mother never had trouble sleeping. She could collapse into bed like a stone dropped in water, gone before the ripples even settled. But then, most nights, she was drunk enough to be unconscious before her head hit the pillow, so that tracked. Even before the drinking, though—back when Mollie was small and her mother still resembled something human—she could sleep for days, dead to the world while the house rotted around her.

Maybe it was from her father. Maybe he’d stared at ceilings too, watching shadows stretch and twist in the dark, counting the hours. Maybe he’d felt it too—that tight, restless hum under his skin, a mind that wouldn’t shut the fuck up no matter how tired he was. Maybe that’s what did it. Maybe that’s what made him—

She stopped the thought before it could finish. But it lingered anyway, like cigarette smoke caught in her throat.

Because if she had his insomnia, maybe she had the other thing too. The thing that lived in the quiet hours, in the marrow of her bones. The thing that made him smear his thoughts across the ceiling in one last, desperate exhale.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Song to the Siren

The city’s heat settled over her like a held breath, heavy and stubborn. It wasn’t the type of heat that scorched—no, this was something heavier, like the air had thickened, weighted down by the haze that blurred the horizon into a muted smear. The kind of heat that seeped into your clothes, made the fabric cling, made the world feel just a little too close. Somewhere, wildfires were eating their way through forests, the sky smudged with the faint gray breath of distant destruction. The sun beat through the haze, making the world look orange. The only reprieve came from the sharp chill of overworked air conditioners humming like distant bees behind glass storefronts.

Mollie almost didn’t come. She’d stared at Haley’s text, thumb hovering, debating the merits of staying cocooned in her cabin, hidden from the city’s sprawling pulse. It wasn’t avoidance, not this time—more like self-preservation. The city wasn’t kind to her. Its edges were too sharp, its spaces too hollow. But the promise of unfamiliar streets, far from the ghosts that still lived in the corners of her mind, had been enough. Far from Michael. Far from her mother’s shadow.

The boutique smelled like perfume and plastic. Mollie stood in the dressing room, naked, the cracked mirror reflecting the worst angles of herself. She shifted her weight, the dress hanging from her fingers—black fabric delicate enough to slip between them like water, scattered with yellow flowers that bloomed bright against the darkness. Little sunbursts clung to thin, spindly stems. Lavender threaded through the print like an afterthought. Haley had thrust it into her hands with the kind of authority Mollie never argued with.

She pulled it on, the cool fabric sliding over skin still damp from the walk, sticking slightly where sweat hadn’t dried. Thin straps dug into her shoulders, the neckline dipping just enough to be interesting but not enough to be bold. The hem flirted with her knees, ruffled edges catching on her thighs when she shifted. She smoothed it down with the flat of her palms, fingers lingering at her hips, where nothing felt quite right. The mirror gave nothing back but the hollow outline of a person she’d learned to avoid staring too long at.

When she stepped out, the lights of the shop were too bright, buzzing faintly. Abigail was slouched in a chair, picking at the chipped polish on her thumb, but she looked up when Mollie emerged. A slow grin curled at the edge of her mouth.

Abigail whistled, low and sharp. "Well, fuck. Look at you."

Mollie rolled her eyes, heat creeping up her neck. She turned back to the mirror outside, pretending to fuss with the straps, but was really just avoiding her own reflection. The dress was nice. Pretty, even. It made her look like someone else—someone lighter. She hated it and wanted to keep it all the same.

Haley appeared behind her in the mirror, a pair of sunglasses perched like a crown on top of her head and a stack of clothing in her arms. She squinted, tilted her head like she was appraising a piece of art.

“That’s the one,” Haley declared, voice sharp as glass. “Perfect for the Luau.”

Mollie didn’t argue.

The city peeled past the car window like an old film reel—familiar, grainy, too fast. Mollie sat tucked into the backseat of Abigail’s car, her forehead resting against the cool window, the faint vibration of the engine humming against her temple. The window was cracked open, just enough to let in the stale, smoky breath of the city. 

Abigail’s AC had been broken since the start of summer, leaving the interior sticky and close. The leather seats clung to bare skin, and Mollie could feel the sweat pooling at the bend of her knees, the small of her back. A pop song played on the radio, soft and tinny through the speakers, like it was embarrassed to be heard over the girls’ voices.

“I’m just saying,” Haley’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as ever. “You can’t wear jeans to the Luau. It’s literally against the whole point.”

Abigail snorted, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other flipping Haley off with casual grace. “It’s not a wedding, Haley. No one’s going to cry because I didn’t dress like a baby prostitute.”

Mollie let their bickering wash over her, background noise against the steady rhythm of the city slipping by. Concrete and glass blurred into streaks of muted color, neon signs flickering in windows that hadn’t been washed in years. She wasn’t really listening, not to them. Her attention snagged on the sharp, familiar outline of a diner as they passed—a squat little building with faded red vinyl booths and a flickering “OPEN” sign that hadn’t been turned off in decades.

Her stomach twisted, reflexive and quick, like muscle memory. She craned her neck as they sped past, the letters of the sign warping, stretching, until they disappeared behind a cluster of buildings. She used to work there. A lifetime ago, it felt like. The kind of place where the coffee was always burnt, the regulars were ghosts in human skin, and the tips never covered more than shared rent with her mother and cigarettes.

Haley laughed at something Abigail said, the sound loud and bright in the small space. Mollie didn’t join in. She kept her eyes on the rearview mirror, watching the diner shrink into nothing, swallowed by the city she thought she could leave behind.

The wind whipped in through the cracked window, carrying the faintest hint of ash.

“…I’m just saying, if you’d let me tweeze them, they wouldn’t look like that,” Haley said, perched on the edge of her bed with a cigarette dangling from her fingers, its ash balancing on the brink of collapse.

Abigail shot her a glare through the mirror’s reflection, her eyeliner pencil paused mid-air. “My eyebrows are fine.”

“They’re uneven.”

“That’s because I have a face, not a blueprint.”

Mollie sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against the foot of Haley’s dresser, absently peeling the label from a bottle of cheap tequila. The room had an aroma of burnt hair and hairspray, the waft of it inescapable, even with the windows open.

“Give me that,” Haley demanded, reaching for the bottle. Mollie passed it without looking up, her fingers brushing against Haley’s cool rings—thin bands stacked haphazardly, some tarnished from too many summers spent in saltwater.

Haley took a swig and winced, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “God, that’s awful.”

“That’s because it’s tequila,” Mollie mumbled, leaning her head back against the wood, feeling the press of each knot in the grain against her skull.

“And because it’s twelve dollars,” Abigail added, capping her eyeliner and tossing it into the mess of makeup scattered across Haley’s vanity.

Haley leaned over, grabbing a curling iron. “Okay, your turn,” she said, pointing at Mollie with the hot end.

Mollie groaned, unfolding herself from the floor. “You’re really committed to this, huh?” she muttered, but she dropped onto the small stool in front of the mirror anyway.

Haley rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because unlike you, I believe in putting in the bare minimum of effort.”

Mollie huffed out a small laugh, letting Haley tug her hair into neat sections. The heat prickled against her scalp, each pass of the iron releasing faint wisps of burnt hair into the already thick air.

She stared at her reflection, her face caught between shadow and the dim light of the vanity bulbs. She didn’t look like herself, but maybe that was the point.

Haley finished with a triumphant flick of her wrist, letting the last curl drop. “Voilà,” she announced, spinning Mollie slightly to face the mirror.

Mollie tilted her head, inspecting the version of herself staring back. She looked—pretty, she supposed. Her hair soft and golden, her skin warmed from the summer sun and the flush of cheap liquor.

“Almost perfect,” Haley said, her mouth curling into a smirk as she tucked a stray strand behind Mollie’s ear. Her fingers lingered a beat too long, cool against Mollie’s warm skin, before she pulled back.

Mollie didn’t say anything. She just reached for the tequila.

The heat had finally let up, giving way to a soft breeze off the water that carried the faint tang of something earthy, like wet driftwood left too long in the sun. Twinkle lights stretched from tree to tree, sagging slightly in the middle, casting lazy halos of light over the crowd. They blinked unevenly, their wires tangled like no one had cared enough to fix them. The dance floor was a warped plywood platform, the kind thrown together years ago and left to rot under too many summers. The edges curled slightly, the wood soft in places where it had given up trying to stay whole, patches worn smooth by countless scuffed shoes and sticky spills. It creaked underfoot with every other step, groaning like it was tired of holding people up.

Mismatched folding chairs circled the floor, their metal legs sinking slightly into the dirt, arranged like someone had half-heartedly tried to make it look intentional. A sagging table sat off to the side, groaning under the weight of mismatched Tupperware containers and platters of food, dominated by the roasted pig Sam had promised—its skin glossy, an apple shoved into its mouth.

Mollie stood with Haley and Abigail near the punch bowl, her cup sticky against her fingers from whatever had spilled down the side. The punch was too sweet, cut with the sharp bite of whatever Pam had poured into it, leaving that familiar burn that made it hard to tell how drunk you were until it was too late. Mollie was buzzed, the good kind, where her skin felt a little too loose in the best way, laughter slipping out easier than usual.

Alex was slouched in a plastic chair nearby, already drunker than he should’ve been, his grin lazy and unfocused. Sebastian sat next to him, half-turned away, scrolling through his phone. He looked surprisingly sharp in a white button-down and a black tie, the sleeves pushed up, exposing the pale undersides of his arms. Mollie could picture his mom, Robin, shoving the tie into his hands with that no-nonsense look she probably gave him his entire life.

Mollie’s gaze drifted beyond them, her eyes skimming the crowd without really thinking. She was looking for someone, though she’d never admit it. It’s not as if she had anything to say to him if she spotted him. Hey, Doctor Harvey. Wanna look at my healing cut on my hand? Not exactly a great pickup line.

“Who’re you looking for?” Abigail’s voice cut through the noise.

Mollie blinked, her face smoothing into something indifferent. “No one.”

Abigail didn’t press, just smirked like she knew better, which was annoying.

Across the clearing, Evelyn caught Mollie’s eye and waved, her smile bright and uncomplicated, the kind of smile that made Mollie feel like she mattered more than she probably did. Mollie lifted her hand in a small wave, her own smile softer, more genuine than she’d expected.

A flask appeared in front of her face, shoved into her hand with no preamble. Mollie took a sip without asking what was in it. The burn was sharp and clean, sliding down and settling in her stomach. The hour largely passed like this—a drink shoved into a hand, a joke told amongst the group, idle gossip that kept Mollie only slightly engaged. 

Haley was mid-rant about Alex, her words sharp and fast, dripping with frustration. “I mean, he can’t even handle his shit. It’s pathetic.”

But as she spoke, her gaze kept flicking to someone across the way—the redheaded girl sitting with Elliot, the self-proclaimed literary genius who’d once cornered Mollie at the Saloon to inform her he was writing the next great American romance novel . He’d even asked if she wanted to read it sometime, like that was some grand invitation. Mollie had laughed in his face and told him she wasn’t into romance. She snorted at the memory.

“You friends with her?” Mollie asked, nodding toward the redhead.

Haley’s brow furrowed like she didn’t know who Mollie meant, but her eyes betrayed her, sliding back to the girl before she could stop them.

Mollie tilted her head slightly. “Her. Leah.”

Haley’s face went blank, the kind of blank that meant she was scrambling for something to say. “No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “She and Elliot go to some online art school.”

Mollie raised an eyebrow. “The one you wanna go to?”

Haley’s jaw tightened. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

“You should ask her about it.”

Haley shrugged, her eyes already darting back to Alex, who was trying to light a cigarette at the wrong end. “I don’t care.”

But Mollie saw the way her shoulders tensed, the way her gaze lingered. She didn’t call her on it, though. Whatever it was, she knew Haley was not even close to dealing with it. 

She was mid-sip of the flask when a hand landed on the small of her back, warm and casual, fingers pressing just enough to make her stiffen slightly.

She turned, hoping—though she’d never admit it out loud—to see someone else.

But it was Sam.

Of course it was Sam.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sam said, grinning wide. “Long shift at JojaMart.”

Before she could reply, he snatched the flask from her hand, tipping it back with his special brand of reckless enthusiasm. He winced as the liquor hit, coughing slightly, and handed it back with a dramatic shake of his head.

“Jesus. What even is that?”

Mollie shrugged. “Tequila. Abigail’s special stash.”

Sam groaned. “She’s trying to kill us.”

Abigail, overhearing, shot him a look from over her cup. 

Mollie smirked, but before she could lean into the banter, Sam turned back to her, his grin morphing into something more pointed, more deliberate.

“I’ve come to collect my dance, Miss Cooper.”

Mollie groaned, tipping her head back. “I was really hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

“How could I?” he shot back, his smirk tilting just enough to be dangerous. He reached for her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers with a confidence that didn’t leave room for refusal. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I even requested a song for us.”

She groaned again, but there was no real fight in it. She let him tug her toward the dance floor, her feet dragging. The plywood creaked beneath them as they stepped onto the makeshift stage, the lights overhead casting uneven shadows that felt too bright, too exposed.

No one else was dancing.

Of course no one else was dancing.

Her cheeks flushed instantly, the heat crawling up her neck like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She glanced around, hoping maybe someone— anyone —would join them, but the crowd seemed content to watch, drinks in hand, faces blurred with indifference.

“You owe me for this,” she muttered under her breath as Sam spun her lazily, his grip loose.

And then the music shifted, the opening notes of a song she recognized immediately— Tim Buckley . She froze for half a beat, her eyes snapping to Sam, who was grinning like an idiot.

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did,” he said proudly. “Figured if I had to endure your questionable music tastes, I might as well do it in style.”

Mollie huffed out a laugh despite herself, shaking her head as she let him pull her closer. His hands found her waist, gentle but firm, and she rested hers on his shoulders, her fingers brushing the soft fabric of his shirt.

The song played on, slow and aching, the kind of melody that settled into your chest and stayed there. Sam swayed them in time, his movements unhurried, unpolished. It was awkward, but it was also nice— stupidly nice.

She let herself relax into it, the notes of Tim Buckley’s voice threading through the air like a frayed ribbon, the guitar’s lazy strum giving their awkward steps some sort of purpose.

“Thanks, Sam,” Mollie murmured, her voice soft, tucked somewhere between the space of their bodies. “This is the perfect song.”

And it was. Maybe it was the tequila humming through her veins, or the punch—or both—but she meant it. The simplicity of it made her heart twist in a way that felt too vulnerable, too easy.

Sam didn’t say anything. Just pulled her a little closer, his hand sliding up slightly, fingers curling at the fabric.

Mollie rested her head against his chest, the faint thump of his heartbeat a steady, comforting thing. They moved together in that lazy sway, her feet stumbling slightly every now and then, betraying the buzz she was trying to keep under wraps.

“You drunk, Cooper?” Sam’s voice rumbled above her, low and amused, his head dipping to catch her eyes.

“Slightly,” she replied, tilting her head to look up at him, her nose scrunching instinctively. “Cooper?”

Sam grinned, his face flushed—not from the heat. “Yeah, that’s your new nickname I decided on. I was gonna call you ‘Moley,’ but figured since you didn’t have any moles, that one didn’t make sense.”

Mollie snorted, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he agreed easily, his grin widening.

She tilted her head in mock thought. “Alright, but if you get to call me that, I’m calling you ‘Sammy.’”

The look of horror that washed over his face was worth every syllable. “Absolutely not. My mother calls me that.”

Mollie burst into laughter, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep. It felt good.

“Fine. How about… Sunny?” she teased, biting her lip to keep from laughing again.

“Sunny?” Sam echoed, skeptical, one brow raised.

“Yeah. You know, because of your sunny disposition.”

His cheeks flushed a little more, a soft pink creeping up to the tips of his ears. “That’s sweet of you to say, but I’m gonna have to pass.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible.” Mollie threw her hands up dramatically before settling them back on his shoulders, the fabric damp with sweat. “Sampson it is.”

That broke him. His laugh was loud, too loud, cutting through the soft haze of music and chatter like it belonged there. It was the kind of laugh that filled space, unapologetic, drawing attention without meaning to. Mollie laughed with him, the sound spilling out before she could stop it.

When the laughter died down, Sam’s gaze softened, lingering on her face.

“You’re a fun drunk, you know,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing against the fabric at her waist. “A lot more relaxed.”

Mollie rolled her eyes, leaning into the sarcasm to keep things from getting too real. “Tell me something I don’t know. Maybe I should stay buzzed more often, then.”

“Not too much,” he murmured. “I like you just as you are. Buzzed or not.”

The words sat between them, heavier than she wanted them to be. Mollie felt the blush creep up from her chest, burning against the cool salt breeze. She looked away quickly, her eyes scanning the crowd—anything to distract herself.

The song faded out, leaving nothing but the soft murmur of waves colliding with the shore and the faint hum of laughter floating from the edges of the crowd. Before the next track could start, Mollie felt the shift—the spell breaking.

A small tug at Sam’s sleeve.

She glanced down to find Vincent standing there, his sandy blonde hair sticking up in uneven tufts like it always did, cheeks flushed pink from running around in the heat. He looked up at Sam with wide, expectant eyes.

“My turn,” Vincent announced, gripping Sam’s hand with all the determination a seven-year-old could muster.

Sam let out a soft laugh, ruffling Vincent’s hair. “Right. I promised this little dude a dance, didn’t I?”

Mollie stepped back, her hands instinctively dropping from Sam’s shoulders, grateful for the interruption, though she masked it with a crooked smile. “Duty calls,” she said, her voice lighter than she felt.

Sam’s grin lingered. “I’ll catch up with you later, Cooper.”

She gave him a quick salute, watching as he let Vincent drag him toward the center of the makeshift dance floor, their mismatched steps already out of sync before they even started.

Mollie turned on her heel, heading straight for the punch bowl. The plastic ladle clattered softly against the rim as she poured herself another cup, the liquid sloshing with a little too much enthusiasm. The sickly-sweet scent hit her before the taste did—punch expertly spiked by Pam’s generous hand, its sharpness burning just enough to remind her she was still here, still in her body.

She took a sip, eyes drifting back to the dance floor, but only for a second.

The moon hung low, bloated and indifferent, casting pale streaks across the cracked pavement as Mollie and Sam made their way down the uneven path toward her cabin.

They were laughing—about what, she couldn’t quite remember. Something dumb. Something about a guy at the Luau who’d tried to balance a cup of punch on his head and failed spectacularly. Sam reenacted the moment with exaggerated flair, nearly tripping over his own feet, arms flailing like some tragic bird mid-crash. Mollie snorted, sharp and unfiltered, the punch still humming in her bloodstream.

When they reached her door, though, the laughter thinned, pulled taut like a string stretched too far.

Sam shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the dusty porch step. The porch light flickered above them, an unreliable sentinel.

“I had a good time tonight,” he said, his voice softer now, stripped of the easy humor that had carried them home. “Dancing with you… it was nice.”

Mollie’s smile faltered, just slightly, her fingers tightening around the loose strap of her bag. She felt it—the shift. The way his words hung there, dangling between them like they needed somewhere to land. His eyes held that quiet ache, the kind that waited for permission.

She understood it. Felt the weight of it pressing against the edges of her own hesitation.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t lean in.

Didn’t cross that thin, invisible line.

Instead, she swallowed the knot rising in her throat and offered him a small, crooked smile. 

“Goodnight, Sampson. Thanks for walking me home.”

He blinked, the faintest flicker of disappointment ghosting across his face before he masked it with a lopsided grin. “Yeah. Goodnight, Cooper.”

She turned the key, the door groaning softly as it swung open, the cool darkness inside swallowing her whole.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: The Tower

Mollie sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes that smelled like mildew. The kind of smell that got into your skin, lived there long after you left. She pulled out a crumpled newspaper clipping—some faded headline about a town fair from the '80s. Tossed it into the discard pile without thinking. Another box held nothing but tangled cords, chargers for devices long dead, their purposes forgotten. Gone. Like most things.

The sorting was slow, an act of excavation more than organization. Not just through her grandfather’s belongings but through something older, denser—the layers of a life she’d never been part of but was somehow still tangled in.

She found the WWII memorabilia halfway down a box that had “DAD” scrawled across the top in shaky handwriting. A tin of medals, their ribbons faded into shades of muted red and blue, the metal dull with age. An old black-and-white photo, creased right through the middle, showed a man in uniform standing stiff-backed beside a woman with dark hair and sharp eyes—her great-grandmother, she assumed. Mollie traced the outline of the woman’s face with her thumb, trying to feel something. Anything. But there was nothing there except the brittle edge of paper against her skin.

She kept digging.

It was tucked beneath a stack of yellowed postcards—an envelope, soft with age, corners bent, her mother’s handwriting scrawled across the front. Sharp, jagged letters, like they’d been carved instead of written. Mollie hesitated, thumb resting against the edge of the flap, then slipped a finger underneath and tore it open with a slow, steady rip.

The letter inside was short. Sloppy. The ink smeared in places, the handwriting uneven like it had been written in a rush—or through tears. Or both.

“You think you know everything. You think you know what’s best for me, for her. But you don’t. He doesn’t deserve her. He never did. Mollie’s better off without him, and so am I. I’m finally happy. We’re finally happy.”

There was more—rambling accusations, barbed words twisted into knots of anger and desperation. Mollie read it twice, the words sinking in like stones. It wasn’t just the bitterness that got her. It was the way her own name was scattered through it like punctuation, used more as an object than a person. Something to be owned, fought over, discarded.

She set the letter aside, her hands suddenly too heavy, her chest tight in that way it got when she couldn’t decide if she was angry or sad—or both.

Beneath it, a second letter. Neater handwriting. Steadier. The contrast inside was like a slap.

“I just want to see her. I don’t understand why this has to be so hard.”

Mollie’s stomach twisted. She folded the letter back up with shaking fingers, setting it on top of the others like it might burn her if she held it too long.

The walls felt closer now, the air thinner. She leaned back, her hands braced against the dusty floorboards, staring at the pile of paper.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the loose pane of glass in the window like the house itself was shivering.

The porch swing groaned under Mollie’s weight as she settled in, the glass of lemonade slick with condensation against her palm. The late afternoon was hot, even with the breeze rolling off the hills, carrying the faint scent of something sweet—like overripe fruit left too long in the sun.

Evelyn sat in her usual spot, a battered wicker chair that creaked when she leaned back, her own glass resting on the armrest, faint rings of moisture blooming beneath it. She squinted out at the yard like there was something worth seeing beyond the patchy lawn and sagging flowerbeds.

Mollie glanced sideways at her, then back out at the heat-hazed lawn. She chewed at the inside of her lip, her lemonade untouched in her lap, the glass leaving damp rings on her jeans. 

Her mind drifted to the night before, to the dusty box tucked into the corner of the old cabin, to the letters inside. Her mom’s cramped handwriting. Her father’s name, again and again. The way the pages had trembled slightly in her hands, even though the air hadn’t moved.

She looked at Evelyn again, at the soft lines around her eyes. Evelyn didn’t say much, but there was something about her gaze—calm, knowing—that made Mollie feel like a little girl again without ever fully understanding why.

The question pushed at her, unwanted and insistent. She turned it over in her head, trying to decide if it was worth the risk of asking. Of hearing the wrong answer.

“You used to know me,” Mollie said finally, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. “When I was little.”

Evelyn blinked, then smiled faintly. “I did. Used to babysit you sometimes, when your folks were in town. You were just a baby then.”

Mollie nodded, her thumb tracing a bead of moisture down the glass. She hesitated. Her next question sat on her tongue for a long moment before she let it out.

“Did you… know my dad very well?”

Evelyn’s smile faltered. Not much, just enough to notice. She gave a slow nod, eyes fixed on the yard. “I did, a little. I was real sorry to hear about his passing. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up with you.”

Mollie shrugged, though the motion felt tight in her shoulders. “It’s okay. I didn’t really know him.” She took a sip, the lemonade too sweet. “Not a big deal.”

Evelyn didn’t say anything right away. Just took a long sip of her own, her glass nearly empty now. Then, softly: “It might not mean much to you now, but… you were such a daddy’s girl.”

Mollie stilled.

Evelyn turned to her, face open, quiet. “You used to follow him around everywhere. Like a shadow. He couldn’t go two feet without you toddling after him.”

She let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but it didn’t quite get there. “He’d be fixing something for your Grandpa Frank, and there you were, barely big enough to stand, hauling around a plastic shovel, trying to help.”

Mollie didn’t respond. Her heart had begun to thump, loud in her chest, but she kept her face neutral. Still as a statue.

Evelyn cleared her throat and looked out across the porch, into the horizon. “So… it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s harder than you’re letting on. Losing him. I imagine, in a way, it probably feels like he left you twice.”

Evelyn reached across the space between them and patted Mollie’s hand gently, her skin warm and soft. Then she stood, slow and deliberate, and headed inside, leaving the door open behind her.

Back at the cabin, the boxes stared back at her, silent and swollen with things she didn’t want to know. Mollie sat on the floor, knees drawn up, a beer sweating between her palms. The tab clicked, clicked, clicked under her thumb—a rhythm to fill the hollow space Evelyn’s words had carved out.

Her phone buzzed, vibrating against the dusty floorboards. A single message lit up the cracked screen.

yo

Mollie frowned, thumb hovering. Hey.

The reply was immediate.

u free?

She glanced at the time—3:12 AM. The world outside was a stretch of darkness, stitched together by distant porch lights and the hum of things that didn’t sleep. She thought about ignoring it, drowning in the boxes until sleep became less of a suggestion and more of a demand.

But then:

need a friend that isn’t haley rn

Mollie sighed, dragging herself off the floor with the slow, reluctant gravity of someone who didn’t want to admit they cared.

Yeah, I’m free. What’s up?

The dots blinked, blinked, blinked.

meet me outside the graveyard. wear something warm

Mollie considered sending something sarcastic— what the fuck, are we summoning ghosts? —but didn’t. The boxes could wait. Whatever haunted Abigail’s texts felt heavier.

The walk to the graveyard felt different at night, the air thin and cool. Mollie tugged her hoodie tighter, wishing she’d brought something warmer. The streets were empty, the kind of empty that made you feel like you were the only person around for miles.

Abigail was already there, sitting on a crooked bench near the gate, her thumbs tapping furiously against her phone. Two bottles of wine sat at her feet, a pile of crumpled blankets beside them. 

“You know it’s like… the middle of the night, right?” Mollie muttered, stepping into the pool of light cast by the flickering streetlamp. “Don’t you have a curfew or something?”

Abigail didn’t answer right away. Just looked up, her eyes rimmed with the kind of raw that didn’t need explanation. She handed Mollie a blanket and one of the bottles.

“Snuck out,” she said simply. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t wait for a response—just hooked her arm through Mollie’s and pulled her down the path toward the beach.

They didn’t talk as they walked, the only sounds were the soft crunch of gravel underfoot and the occasional slap of waves against the shore.

When they reached the treeline, Abigail dropped the blankets like an anchor, collapsing onto one and wrapping the other around her shoulders like armor. Mollie followed, settling onto the spot beside her.

Abigail unscrewed the wine, took a long pull straight from the bottle, then passed it over.

“Boys are so fucking stupid,” she announced, like it was a universal truth.

Mollie nodded solemnly, raising the bottle in mock salute. “Here, here.”

Abigail snorted. “Sebastian.”

Mollie took a sip. The wine was cheap and warm. She handed it back.

“Shocker,” Mollie muttered.

Abigail groaned, throwing herself dramatically onto her back, the blanket slipping down her shoulders. “I swear he likes me, but he’s just… him. You know? Like, emotionally constipated or whatever.”

Mollie arched an eyebrow. “Have you told him that? The emotionally constipated part?”

Abigail glared at her, then took another swig. “I shouldn’t have to! I’ve given him all the signs.”

“Maybe he’s blind.”

“Or stupid.”

“Both are likely.”

Abigail laughed, the sound brittle around the edges. She went quiet after that, staring up at the sky, looking at it for answers. The stars were faint, washed out by the town’s weak attempts at lighting the night. Mollie didn’t mind the dark spaces in between.

After a while, Abigail broke the silence again. “Sam said you’ve been avoiding him.”

Mollie groaned, tilting her head back against the rough bark of a driftwood log. “I’ve been… sick.”

“Uh-huh.”

She didn’t press, just waited, which was somehow worse. Mollie sighed, picking at a loose thread on the blanket.

“I don’t think I’m in a place where I can like someone right now. Not really.”

Abigail nodded, like she understood. Maybe she did.

“Do you just want to fuck him or something?”

Mollie snorted, nearly choking on her next sip of wine. “Jesus, Abigail.”

“What? It’s a valid question.”

Mollie wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, her grin fading as the honesty crept in. “I don’t know. I don’t think we are that compatible. It would feel like… like trying too hard.”

Abigail burst out laughing, loud enough to startle a seagull from its perch somewhere nearby. “God, I can’t even picture it. You and Sam boning.”

Mollie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well. Neither can I, apparently.”

Abigail giggled, then nudged her with her foot. “Anyone else in town you’d bone?”

“Oh my god.”

“What? I’m curious.”

Mollie hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip. The wine loosened her tongue before her brain could catch up.

“Well… do you ever think Harvey’s kind of… hot?”

Abigail choked, coughing and laughing at the same time. “ Harvey ? Dr. Buttoned-Up-Crossword-Puzzle Harvey?”

Mollie’s face flushed, but she held her ground. “I don’t know. There’s just… something about him.”

Abigail wiped tears from her eyes, still grinning. “Like what? The way he glares at us for smoking?”

Mollie threw a handful of sand at her, which only made Abigail laugh harder.

“It’s not like I’m planning on seducing him or anything,” Mollie muttered, hiding her smile behind another sip. 

Abigail raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting. “No, but I bet you’ve thought about it.”

“Shut up.”

They dissolved into laughter again, the kind that didn’t need to make sense to feel good. The ocean hummed its approval, waves rolling in lazy, rhythmic sighs.

Eventually, Abigail sobered, digging through her bag and pulling out a deck of tarot cards. She wiggled them in the air like an offering.

“Oh god, no.”

“Please,” Abigail begged, already shuffling. “It’ll be fun.”

Mollie groaned but didn’t move. Maybe because she was too comfortable. Maybe because she didn’t hate the idea as much as she pretended.

“Fine. But if you tell me I’m going to marry a tall, dark stranger, I’m leaving.”

“No promises.”

The reading felt like a joke at first—cards with dramatic art and names like The Tower and The Lovers . But Abigail’s voice softened as she laid them out, her usual sarcasm tucked away like something fragile.

“You’re at a crossroads,” she murmured, tapping the card with a blindfolded woman holding two swords. “Pretending your issues aren’t issues. Holding your breath, hoping they’ll just disappear”

Mollie swallowed, the wine suddenly bitter.

Abigail’s gaze lingered on the next card before she flipped it over, her voice losing some of its certainty. “This one’s your obstacle.” She tapped the image—an armored figure, shield raised but eyes weary—“Defensiveness. Exhaustion. You’re locked in battles that don’t need fighting, scrapping with ghosts no one else can see.”

Mollie’s hands clenched around the edge of the blanket draped across her lap. She could feel the tight coil of tension in her chest unwinding just a little, or maybe it was winding tighter, she couldn’t tell anymore.

The third card came next, and Abigail paused longer than before, almost reluctant. “This is your past,” she said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “A sense of… lack. Abandonment. Like something important was missing.”

Mollie looked away, her fingers curling around the blanket. Her father’s absence. Her mother’s indifference. Michael’s ghost. It all felt too big to fit on a flimsy piece of cardstock.

“Anyway,” Abigail said quickly, sensing the shift. “Good news—after all this emotional garbage, you get love or whatever.”

Mollie barked out a laugh, sharp and sudden. “Of course.”

They both fell silent, the weight of the reading settling between them. Abigail toyed with one of the cards, turning it over and over in her hands. Mollie stared out into the ocean, lost in the rising sun.

Then, faint but unmistakable, came the sound of footsteps—soft, steady, familiar.

Harvey.

Of course it was Harvey.

Mollie blinked like maybe if she didn’t react, he’d pass by unnoticed. But no—there he was, jogging down the beach path, his pace slowing as soon as he spotted them. The sky had softened to a dull gray, that fragile in-between before sunrise, and she realized— Jesus, how long had they been sitting here?

He came to a stop a few feet away, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling with the kind of controlled, steady breath that made Mollie feel hyper-aware of her own—shallow and sticky with cheap wine. His T-shirt clung to his back, darkened with sweat, and his legs—strong and lean—were streaked with sand kicked up from the trail.

“You guys alright?” His voice carried that familiar mix of concern and politeness, layered with something lighter—a quiet curiosity.

“All good,” Abigail chirped, flashing him a quick smile, way too casual considering the evidence of their unraveling: two empty wine bottles, tarot cards scattered like debris, and both of them wrapped in mismatched blankets. “Just having a girls’ night. Or—” she glanced at her phone, squinting at the screen, then jolted like she’d been electrocuted. “ Shit , it’s 5 a.m. I have to leave, like, now.”

They scrambled—Abigail stuffing cards back into their box with none of the care she’d had laying them out, Mollie folding the blanket with clumsy hands, suddenly all thumbs. Harvey didn’t move, just watched them with that unreadable expression, somewhere between amused and indifferent, like he wasn’t quite sure if he should offer to help or just keep standing there, taking up space.

As Mollie stood, the blankets awkward in her arms, her eyes flicked up—and met his.

Mistake.

His gaze was steady, soft around the edges but sharp in the center, like he was seeing right through her. His mouth quirked, not quite a smile but close enough. She felt a compulsion to speak, to fill the silence of his stare.

“You’re out early,” she said, nodding toward his running shoes.

Harvey huffed out a breath, more exhale than laugh. “Could say the same for you.”

Mollie shrugged, pretending her heart wasn’t tap-dancing against her ribs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah.” His eyes flicked to the wine bottles, then back to her. “And the cure for insomnia is… cheap merlot?”

“Surprisingly effective,” she shot back, hugging the blanket tighter like it could shield her from the weird warmth prickling up her neck.

His smile tugged a little wider. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Abigail suddenly appeared beside her, linking their arms with urgent energy. “Okay, we really have to go before my dad wakes up and realizes I’m not at home.”

Harvey stepped back slightly, giving them space. “Get home safe,” he said, his voice softer now, as if the morning itself had dulled the edges. “Try to get some sleep.”

As soon as they were out of sight, Mollie and Abigail burst into laughter—sharp, breathless, the kind that fills up all the awkward spaces you don’t know what to do with.

“Oh my god , Mollie,” Abigail wheezed, clutching her side. “You were like, drooling.”

Mollie rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t fight the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Shut up. Let’s just get home.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: The Way That I Live

The clinic was too quiet in the mornings. That sterile, clinical kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful—just empty. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the space like it was trying to convince him there was still life here, even if he wasn’t convinced.

Harvey sat at his desk, flipping through a patient chart he’d already read three times. Seasonal allergies. Nothing complicated. A prescription for antihistamines, a reminder to keep the windows shut. Easy. Simple. The kind of problem with a solution tucked neatly inside a bottle. But even the simple cases felt heavier here. No second opinions. No colleagues to bounce ideas off. Just him and the echo of his own thoughts.

The town trusted him because there was no one else.

That was the part that sat in his chest like a stone—not the responsibility, but the absence of an alternative. No room for doubt. No room for mistakes.

By midday, the day had blurred into the usual rhythm. A kid with a stomach bug, dehydrated and miserable, his mother’s panic held just beneath the surface. A fisherman with a deep cut on his palm, grumbling about the price of nets while Harvey stitched him up. A woman complaining of headaches, though it was clear what she really wanted was for someone to listen to her for fifteen uninterrupted minutes.

It wasn’t the medicine that tired him. It was the space between it—the places where medicine couldn’t reach.

The asthma attack came late in the afternoon, snapping the day in two. A little girl, no older than seven, gasping like the air had betrayed her, her mother’s voice pitched high with fear. Harvey’s hands moved without thinking—oxygen mask, albuterol, pulse ox clipped to a trembling finger. Muscle memory took over, but his brain lagged behind, somewhere dark, whispering: What if this isn’t enough?

She stabilized. Eventually. They always did.

Afterward, he found himself in the supply closet, door half-shut, leaning against the metal shelves. The air smelled like antiseptic and dust. His heart was still racing, his breath tight—not because it had been a close call, but because it could’ve been. The fear never showed on his face. He was good at that part. But it lived just under the surface, like something coiled and waiting.

By the time the clinic emptied out, dusk had crept in, casting long shadows across the floor. Harvey sat at his desk again, staring at nothing. His mind drifted—like it always did when he let it.

To Mollie.

He didn’t know why she was the thing his thoughts kept circling back to. It wasn’t as if they were friends. She was just… there . In the way she looked at him without the usual polite deference people gave their doctors. Like he was just a guy, not someone holding their fragile mortality in his hands.

And she didn’t try to fill the silence the way most people did. Maybe that’s what got to him. She left space for things he didn’t want to think about, and somehow, that space filled itself with her . With the echo of her voice, the cut of her gaze—sharp and observant, like she was always two steps ahead of whatever you were about to say.

Harvey rubbed at the tension in his neck, trying to shake her loose from his thoughts. It didn’t work.

A regular patient of his, Jessica Milgram, sat on the exam table, knee bouncing in a restless rhythm against the metal step. Harvey had seen her often enough to recognize the patterns—shallow breathing, fingers gripping the hem of her sleeve, eyes darting to the clock like she was waiting for something to go wrong. Anxiety, mostly, though she always came in convinced it was something else. A heart issue. A vitamin deficiency. Early-onset something-or-other.

He adjusted his glasses, flipping through her chart. "I’d like to increase your dosage slightly," he said, scanning the notes from her last visit. "It should help level things out, but you need to give it a few weeks to fully adjust. And I need you to rest more—actually rest, Jess." He looked up, met her gaze. "Your body can’t keep running on empty."

She let out a soft laugh, a little self-deprecating. "Yeah, well. Tell that to the kids."

He had seen them often, her worry always extending to them—two boys, young, loud, constantly in motion. He understood being a single parent wasn’t easy, but he knew she had people in town who could help out.

"You’re not doing them any favors if you burn yourself out," he said, tucking his pen into his front pocket. "You need to give your body a chance to regulate. An hour a day, even. Something small."

Jess hummed, considering. "An hour a day," she repeated, as if testing the words. "And what do you suggest I do with that hour, exactly?"

"Something that isn’t diagnosing yourself with obscure illnesses on the internet."

She smirked, shaking her head. "God, I really need to clear my search history before I die."

Harvey sighed, clicking the end of his pen. "I’m serious."

"I know, I know," she said, lifting her hands. "I’ll try. Doctor’s orders and all."

She said it lightly, but there was something in the way she looked at him just then, something a little too warm, a little too familiar. Harvey had seen that look before, and for a long time, he hadn’t recognized it for what it was. He wasn’t oblivious, not really. He just hadn’t thought of himself that way. As someone people noticed.

Jess let out a breath, soft and measured. "I guess it’s nice, though."

He frowned. "What is?"

"Just—having someone remind you to take care of yourself." She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. "You do that a lot, don’t you?"

Harvey cleared his throat, stacking the papers on his desk. "That’s my job."

Her smile lingered. "Yeah. I guess it is."

There was a moment of silence then, long enough for Harvey to feel it settle. Then she shifted, adjusting the strap of her bag, her expression tilting back toward something lighter. "Well. Here’s hoping your expert medical advice saves me from myself."

"That’s the goal."

Harvey stood, smoothing down the front of his coat, giving Jess a small nod as he gestured toward the door. She hopped down from the exam table, her movements slow. Calculated. He was already running through his next appointment, thinking about what notes he still needed to input, but Jess lingered.

He held the door open, stepping aside for her to pass, but she didn’t. Not yet.

“You know,” she started, shifting the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. “I was thinking… you should let me cook for you sometime.”

Harvey blinked. “What?”

“Dinner,” she said, like it should be obvious. “At your place. You work too much—probably live off frozen meals and coffee. Someone ought to take care of you the way you take care of everyone else.”

He stared at her, caught between bewilderment and something close to secondhand embarrassment. There was a confidence in the way she said it, but he could tell she was already bracing herself, already anticipating his answer.

Harvey cleared his throat, trying to formulate a response that wasn’t outright rejection but also… not whatever this was. “Jess,” he started, voice a little too flat, a little too clipped, “I don’t think that’s—”

She laughed, cutting him off before he could even finish. “Yeah, okay. Got it.”

Her smile was still there, but it had changed—smaller, tighter. She shifted on her feet, adjusting the strap of her bag again, like it was something to do with her hands. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” she said, breezy, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Just figured, y’know. Wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Harvey sighed, softening slightly, but the moment had already passed. She gave him a small nod before stepping past him into the hallway, her pace picking up, her posture straightening, like she was shaking it off.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he sank onto the stool at the front desk when she left out the front door. He didn’t even have time to process the awkwardness of what had just happened before Maru was smirking at him from behind the computer, chin propped in her hand like she had been waiting for this.

“What?” he muttered, already tired.

Maru grinned. “Nothing.”

He shot her a look.

“She’s just always throwing herself at you,” she said, laughing. “Every time she comes in here. It’s honestly impressive.”

He groaned, setting the file back down, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jesus. It’s not—”

“Oh, it is,” Maru interrupted, leaning forward slightly, lowering her voice like it was some big revelation. “She literally just invited herself over to your place.”

Harvey waved a hand, dismissing it. “It wasn’t—she was just being nice.”

Maru laughed. Actually threw her head back and laughed. “Oh my God, Harvey.”

He scowled, rolling his shoulders like he could shake the conversation off. “I’m not interested.”

Maru shrugged, typing something into the system. “Maybe you should tell her that,” she teased. “Might save her the trouble of making up mystery illnesses just to see you.”

“Are you done?”

Maru tried—and failed—to stifle her laugh, turning it into a cough that fooled no one. She shrugged as she reached for a chart. “I mean… she’s an attractive woman. Nice, too. A bit neurotic, maybe, but sweet.”

Harvey gave her a flat look. “She’s my patient, Maru.”

“Right,” Maru said, clearly unconvinced. She flipped the chart open, eyes scanning it like it contained the secrets of the universe. “Just saying. You’re not getting any younger.”

The low murmur of voices drifted in from the front of the clinic—muffled through the walls, but still clear enough to make Harvey pause. One voice bright and easy, the other lower, edged with that dry amusement he had begun to recognize even in brief flashes.

He stopped mid-note, pen hovering over the open file he hadn’t made real progress on in the last thirty minutes. His handwriting, already tight and uneven, had devolved into a series of slanted scratches that even he wouldn’t be able to read later.

He sat back in his chair, jaw tight.

It was like this lately—days when he thought about her, even passingly, she appeared. As if the thought itself conjured her. Like some ridiculous superstition. And he had been thinking of her—against his better judgment. The way she’d looked that morning at the beach, with Abigail, wine bottles and blankets strewn among them. The way she sometimes looked at him like she wanted to say something and didn’t. It had stuck with him through lunch, through the afternoon lull, even through this damn chart he hadn’t been able to finish.

And now here she was. Laughing at something Maru said.

He capped the pen, slower than necessary, and stood. His back ached as he straightened, the familiar tension between his shoulder blades flaring up like it always did after sitting too long. But this felt different. Like the tension had crawled deeper.

Her laugh came again—low and unguarded. It caught him off guard, because it didn’t sound like her. Not the version he’d gotten used to, anyway. That laugh was rare.

He moved toward the front, not quite rushing but not casual either. Like he needed to see for himself that she was really here.

Maru looked up first. “Hey! Look what we got.”

She motioned to the counter, where Mollie stood beside her. She turned at the sound of Maru’s voice, her gaze catching his—sharp, unreadable, as always. Something in her expression made him stand a little straighter without realizing it.

“Mollie brought us baked goods,” Maru said. “Straight from Evelyn’s kitchen.”

Harvey’s eyes moved to the basket resting on the counter. The cloth had been folded back to reveal a neat arrangement: golden bread, sugar-dusted cookies, lemon scones. The sight was so familiar it should’ve been comforting. Evelyn had sent things like this for years. There was usually a container of her baking on the break room table, or wrapped in foil beside the coffee pot.

But today, Evelyn hadn’t come.

Today, it was Mollie.

Something about that detail—the way she’d appeared without warning, dropped into the center of his afternoon—irritated him. Evelyn was predictable. Steady. Mollie was not.

“Is she alright?” he asked. Sharper than intended. “Evelyn.”

Mollie’s spine straightened, her expression shifting just slightly. “She’s fine. Just feeling a little sick. She asked me to bring it by.”

He nodded, leaning back against the counter. The wood pressed into his spine. Maru asked her something about the lemon glaze Evelyn used, and the two fell into conversation. Harvey listened, but didn’t engage.

Instead, he watched her.

She moved like she was trying to take up less space—shoulders tucked slightly in, fingers twisting the hem of her shirt in an absent, unconscious rhythm. She picked at a chipped thumbnail with her other hand, a small, repetitive motion that gave her away more than anything she said.

He didn’t trust that ease of hers. It always felt like a performance. Like everything about her was a half-truth, wrapped in dry humor and nonchalance. Her body language often told the truth.

She glanced at him once. Just a flick. Then back to Maru.

Harvey cleared his throat. “If she’s still feeling off tomorrow, let me know. I’ll stop by.”

Mollie looked over, brows raised slightly, like she hadn’t expected that. “Yeah. I will.”

Silence pressed in around them again.

Harvey could see her considering him, could see her thinking about how to fill this awkward silence that floated around them. But instead of filling it, she narrowed her eyes slightly and looked away from him, turning her attention back to Maru with a smile. “Anyway. I should go.”

“Thanks again,” Maru said, grinning at the basket.

Mollie waved once and left, the bell above the door jingling as it shut behind her.

Maru turned to him, gave him a look.

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t even say thanks.”

He didn’t respond. Just reached over and took a cookie from the edge of the basket. He bit into it, chewing slow, eyes on the window.

He watched Mollie cross the square, head bowed, arms folded. Her hair caught the late sun. Her shoulders were curled slightly inward again—like the moment had already passed, and she was back in her own orbit, unreachable.

The jazz crackled low, barely filling the quiet. Harvey sat at his desk, brush in hand, putting the finishing touches on the wing of a model airplane. Normally, the repetitive motion was enough to settle his mind—clean lines, tiny parts, quiet focus. Not tonight.

His thoughts kept snagging, not because of what Jess had said exactly, but because of what it represented. Another complication. Another moment where someone blurred the lines and made his job feel like something it wasn’t.

He sighed and set the brush down, rolling his shoulders. It wasn’t even about her. Not really. She was kind. Lonely, maybe. Just trying. But things like this always threw him off—the casual flirtation, the not-so-subtle invitations. The way people assumed that because he was polite, he was open.

He wasn’t. Not like that. But how could he explain that to her?

Harvey sighed through his nose, setting the brush down, flexing his fingers against the edge of the desk. Christ. Who wanted to have that conversation? There was no way to phrase it that didn’t make him feel like an asshole.

Sorry, Jess. I’ve decided to live the rest of my life alone in comfortable, safe, lonely solitude.

He snorted. Not that it wasn’t true. And besides, she had two kids. He wasn’t exactly built for that kind of complication—wasn’t even sure he wanted it. The idea of parenting, of stepping into someone else’s life mid-chapter, felt impossibly foreign. He’d let go of that dream years ago. Medicine had taken most of him; whatever was left didn’t feel like enough to give anyone else.

But still, the thought lingered.

Dating in Pelican Town.

Had he ever really considered it? He knew within weeks of arriving that it wasn’t practical. Everyone was a patient. Even those who weren’t eventually ended up on his table or in his records. The ethics were too tangled, the town too small. And he was too busy. 

He glanced down at the model plane in his hand.

Right. Busy .

Busy being a small-town doctor with a rotating list of half a dozen patients a day and enough free time to paint miniature aircrafts in silence like some old man in a retirement home.

He huffed a quiet laugh. Okay—so maybe not that busy.

But that didn’t mean he had any intention of opening his life again. Not when he already knew how it ended. Not when disappointment was practically baked into the equation.

He picked up the brush again, rolling it between his fingers. Exhaled.

Enough of that.

His phone buzzed against the desk, a soft vibration that broke the quiet. He reached for it lazily, thumb brushing across the screen. A new post. His father.

It was a picture. Somewhere coastal—bright, warm, expensive. A restaurant patio with an ocean view, the kind of place that screamed celebration . His father was grinning, tanned and relaxed, an arm slung around Evangeline’s shoulders. She looked the same as always—poised, polished, not a single year of their marriage showing on her. And Stephen, golden in the sunlight, seated beside them in a crisp white shirt, drink in hand, laughing at something just out of frame.

Celebrating Stephen’s latest achievement—Dean’s List! Proud of you, son!

Harvey swiped out of the app before he could think too much about it. Set the phone down, ran a hand over his face.

Twenty-two years—that’s how much younger Evangeline was than his father. And only fourteen years older than Harvey. A walking cliché. The respected surgeon and his bright-eyed assistant. Late nights at the hospital. That smile Harvey remembered, the one his mother pretended not to notice.

He’d been ten when she sat him down at the kitchen table and told him his father wasn’t coming home. But he already knew. He’d seen it—the way Evangeline’s presence lingered long after she left the room, the way his father straightened his posture around her, lit up in a way he never did at home.

At first, it had been easy to hate her. Easy to hate Stephen when he was born, too, though he’d been too young to deserve it. Holding on to that anger was simpler than acknowledging what really hurt.

And it only got easier. When his father stopped calling. When the visits thinned, then vanished. When his mother got sick again and didn’t recover. When Harvey, newly orphaned, was shoved into that bright, tidy house where he didn’t belong.

Like a burden. A reminder. A responsibility.

But Evangeline had tried. She told his father to do better. To call. To be present. She never treated Harvey like an outsider, even when he gave her every reason to. And Stephen… Stephen was just a kid. He hadn’t asked to be the favorite. Hadn’t asked to be the son their father actually wanted .

So Harvey let it go.

Mostly.

Enough to stay in touch. To come home during breaks, take Stephen to the fair, to mini-golf. To answer his texts. To show up when he could.

He turned the phone over again, then switched to messages.

Congrats. Proud of you, Stevie.

The reply came a minute later.

Thanks, Harv. Wish you were here.

Harvey huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Wish you were here.” 

Harvey didn’t.

But he was glad Stephen did.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Are You Lonesome Like Me?

The cabin had settled into that peculiar kind of quiet—thick, oppressive, like the walls were holding their breath. Shadows crept in with the late afternoon light, stretching long fingers across the floorboards, spilling over the mess Mollie had made. The boxes gaped open like old wounds, their contents spilling out in faded scraps of paper, dusty trinkets, and the brittle edges of things better left buried.

She’d been sifting through them for hours, surrounded by the ghosts of people she barely remembered and some she’d never known. Old receipts, photographs faded to the color of dried tea, brittle newspaper clippings. All of it meaningless until it wasn’t.

The letter was wedged between two brittle photo albums, tucked into an envelope yellowed at the edges, her grandfather’s name scrawled across the front. Not her grandfather’s neat, slanted script—this was different. Sharper. Less certain.

She stared at it for a beat, thumb brushing over the brittle paper like it might bite her. Then she slid her finger under the flap and pulled.

The letter inside was creased, soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. Ink bled slightly along the lines, like the words themselves had tried to escape.

Frank—

I don’t know what else to do.

Mollie’s eyes caught on the jagged slope of the handwriting, messy in places like it had been written in a hurry—or with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

It’s been weeks. I haven’t seen her. Haven’t seen Mollie. She just left, took her without saying a word to me.

She’s not herself. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? She’s not… right. I don’t even know if Mollie’s safe with her. I just—Frank, please. Help me. You know I’m not what she says I am. You’ve seen me with Mollie. You know I’d never hurt her. I just want my daughter back. I just want her to be okay.

I’m filing for custody. I need you to sign as a witness. To tell the court I’m not the man she’s making me out to be.

Mollie’s vision blurred at the edges. The words twisted, swimming on the page. Her breath was there one second, gone the next.

Her father’s name was at the bottom, scrawled in ink that had faded but not enough to soften the blow.

She stared at it, the paper trembling slightly between her fingers. The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in, the air too thick to swallow.

Mollie read the letter again, slower this time, as if the words might rearrange themselves, offer a different version. But the ink stayed put, stubborn in its certainty. She turned it over, as if answers might be scrawled on the back. Just blank space—more emptiness.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, sharp as broken glass. He didn’t want us. He left. He didn’t care.

But here it was—in black and white. Her father’s desperation, etched into paper like a wound.

The letter slipped from her hands, drifting to the floor like it weighed nothing at all.

Her throat felt tight. Not choking, exactly—but like something was caught there. A breath she couldn’t take. A thought she couldn’t finish.

She stayed still, her fingers curled around the edge of the table, willing herself not to spiral. Her heart had picked up its pace, but not enough to alarm—just enough to make her aware of it. Every beat felt loud. Off.

It wasn’t a full panic. Not yet. Just the threat of one, pacing just beneath her skin.

She stumbled outside, the door slamming shut behind her like the cabin itself was glad to be rid of her. The cold met her first—sharp in her nose, her chest. She breathed in, slow and deliberate.

The sky stretched above her, indifferent. The trees swayed, their branches clawing at the dusk.

She sank onto the porch steps with a quiet exhale. Let her elbows rest on her knees. Pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes until the burn faded.

But the letter was still there—in her head, under her skin. Her father’s words threaded through her like barbed wire, impossible to untangle.

The bedroom was dark, the kind of darkness that didn’t just fill a room but pressed in from all sides, dense and weighty. Mollie lay flat on her back, the ceiling nothing more than a vague shadow above her, her eyes wide open, dry from staring too long without blinking. The faint hum of the old fridge in the other room was the only sound, a low, persistent thing that settled into the silence.

The sheets felt heavy, twisted around her legs, too warm despite the chill sneaking through the cracked window. She didn’t bother kicking them off. It wasn’t her body that felt trapped—it was her mind.

She knew her mother’s story. The one she’d been told since she was six, shaped and sharpened over the years like a well-worn knife. That her father left them. That he didn’t want Mollie anymore—never had. That he’d packed up his love, if he’d ever had any, and carried it off to start a new family because they weren’t enough for him.

And then, when Mollie was older, the story evolved, grew claws. He was an abuser, a drunk, on drugs. Broke and unwilling to give up his vices for his family. Her mother’s voice would tighten when she told it, each retelling more vivid, more venomous, as if conviction alone could make it more true. It was her favorite story to tell when she was drunk—which was often. A sharp-edged tale she’d pull out whenever Mollie dared to stand up for herself, wielding it like proof that Mollie was nothing. That she wasn’t good enough to keep her father around.

But now—now there was another story taking shape. Pieced together from the jagged fragments of letters found in dusty boxes, from Evelyn’s soft words, careful and hesitant like they were afraid to exist. This story was messier, blurred around the edges, but it was there: that her mother had left. That she’d taken Mollie with her. That her mother was the unstable one. That her father had wanted her back. Had fought to get her back.

Custody papers. He’d mentioned custody papers, for God’s sake.

Mollie turned her head toward the window, where the faint glow of the moon bled through the thin curtain, casting a weak stripe of light across the floor. She stared at it like it might offer an answer, but all it gave her was more space to think.

What had happened?

All she knew was that she hadn’t seen her father since she was six.

She could call her mother. She could demand answers, force the truth out, drag it into the light and hold it there until it stopped writhing.

But what was the point?

Her dad was dead. Gone like he’d never existed beyond the scraps of paper and fleeting memories. What good was knowing now? The truth wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t fill the hollow space he’d left behind. It wouldn’t rewrite the years of silence.

Eventually, the cabin had turned against her.

It wasn’t dramatic—not in the way a house burns down or floods or crumbles beneath rot. It was quieter than that, meaner. The walls seemed to inch closer with every passing hour, the floorboards groaning under the weight of her restlessness. The boxes she’d promised herself she’d toss—days ago now—sat in the corner like an accusation, cardboard flaps yawning open, their contents half-spilled like entrails.

She hadn’t eaten all day. Maybe yesterday, too. The fridge held nothing but a half-empty bottle of mustard and a carton of milk that had turned sour days ago. The emptiness in her stomach didn’t feel sharp anymore, just hollow—a faint echo when she moved.

She stared at the boxes, arms crossed over her chest like that would keep the gnawing feeling inside. She could stay. Keep sitting here, tracing the same thought patterns like tire ruts dug too deep to escape.

Or she could leave.

The thought hit like a breath of cold air.

She grabbed her jacket from the back of a chair. It had been months since Robin lent her the bike—some offhanded kindness Mollie never properly thanked her for. She’d used it a handful of times, but it felt necessary now, like her legs alone couldn’t carry the weight of her.

The night slapped her in the face the moment she stepped outside—cool and sharp, the kind of cold that crept under her jacket, threading itself through the seams. The sky was heavy with clouds, blanketing the stars, making the town feel smaller than usual. She liked that. The anonymity of darkness.

She swung her leg over the bike and set off, the tires crunching over gravel, the wind knotting her hair as she pedaled faster than she needed to. The roads were mostly empty, save for the occasional porch light glowing like distant lighthouses, guiding no one.

She thought about the house party she’d been invited to, the one she’d politely declined with the excuse of feeling unwell. That wasn’t a lie. Just not the kind of sick they’d understand. Her friends would be there—Haley, Abigail, Sam, Sebastian—loud and bright, full of the kind of energy that made her feel like a shadow on the wall. She didn’t want to be seen tonight.

The Saloon’s neon sign flickered, casting a sickly red glow onto the cracked pavement out front. Mollie propped the bike against the side of the building, dusted her palms on her jeans, and pushed through the door without thinking twice.

The Saloon’s door creaked shut behind her with a soft thud. Despite the heat, the place wasn’t packed—just a scattering of regulars slumped over their drinks, their voices low, blending with the scratchy notes of a song.

Mollie made her way to the bar, the floor sticky underfoot, familiar in the way only small-town haunts could be. Gus glanced up from where he was drying a glass with a rag that had seen better days. His face lit with a soft smile, one of those easy, practiced things, but not insincere.

“Well, hey there, stranger,” he greeted, his voice carrying that warm, scratchy charm he reserved for familiar faces.

Mollie leaned an elbow on the bar, returning his smile with something lazy, half-formed. “Gus.”

“What’ll it be?”

“Beer,” she said, then paused, her stomach making its grievances known. “And… spaghetti.”

Gus’s grin widened. “House special. You’re in for a treat.”

She huffed a small laugh, more exhale than anything else. “I’ll try to contain my excitement.”

As Gus turned to pour her drink, Mollie let her gaze wander, not really expecting to see anyone worth noting given the house party tonight. But there he was—Harvey—tucked at the far end of the bar, book in hand, posture straight despite the casual setting, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. His forearms— God , his forearms—rested on the bar, solid and still. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, but he didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in whatever he was reading.

She looked away like she’d been caught. Not by him—he hadn’t looked up—but by the sudden and unwelcome heat behind her cheeks. The clink of her beer hitting the counter grounded her.

“Food’ll be right up,” Gus said with a wink before moving down the bar to tend to someone else.

Mollie nodded her thanks, fingers curling around the cold glass. She didn’t sip. Didn’t move.

What was it about this man that was so captivating?

Yes, he was handsome. But that wasn’t it—not really. It was the way he ignored her. Treated her like she was background noise. That’s what made it so salacious, so… necessary . Like she had something to prove.

Harvey was becoming her Mount Everest. And he didn’t even know it.

She always had preferred the ones who didn’t quite like her. Found it more thrilling. Or maybe not thrilling—maybe just familiar. Safer, in a backwards sort of way. Their distance was something she understood. Predictable. It meant she didn’t have to get close, didn’t have to risk being seen, or worse—cared for.

If she thought too long about why that was, she knew she’d spiral. Knew it had more to do with how she was raised—and less to do with how powerful it felt to chase someone who refused to be caught.

Her hand tightened on the glass.

She should leave it alone.

Instead, she moved.

Not beside him—she wasn’t that bold. But close. One empty stool between them. A thin illusion of restraint. The stool squeaked a little as she settled with more force than intended. She flinched at the sound.

Harvey didn’t look up.

Asshole.

Mollie sipped her beer, eyes skimming over the book he was absorbed in. The words in her head piled up like traffic at a yellow light—hesitant, pausing, inching forward. Another sip, just enough to drown the hesitation, and she cleared her throat, a subtle tilt of her head toward him.

“Whatcha reading?”

Her voice cut through the soft hum of the bar, casual enough, though her grip tightened just a bit around the cool glass. Harvey blinked, glancing up, eyebrows lifting like he wasn’t expecting to find her there—not this close, at least. His eyes flicked over her quickly, a glance that managed to make her pulse flare in the back of her neck.

“History,” he said, lifting it slightly to prove his point. “World War II.”

“Very cool,” Mollie replied, the flat mock enthusiasm practically dripping off the words, punctuated by a slow nod.

That got a snort from him. A corner of his mouth twitched, the briefest pull into a smile. Mollie felt the shift like it was something real, something she could actually touch.

His amber drink sat on the bar, almost gone, condensation tracing faint rings across the wood. She nodded toward it before the words could escape her.

“Do you come here just to read so people think you’re cool and mysterious?”

He froze, hand just above the glass. That same baffled expression she’d seen on him before crossed his face, like she'd asked him to solve a riddle he wasn’t prepared for. His eyes lingered this time, just enough to make her smirk falter, a flicker of doubt crawling in. Maybe she was being the asshole.

Then, with a quick turn of the page, he closed the book with a soft thud, his lips curving into something that might have been a smirk.

“Something like that,” he muttered, quieter now, making the words feel like they were meant just for her. “Did you come here just to bully someone?” 

Mollie leaned back, fingers drumming on her glass, as she considered. She took a sip, the pause hanging just long enough to match the earlier silence.

“Something like that,” she said, letting his own words flick back at him, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

The laugh he gave was quiet, brief. He shook his head, gaze dropping back to his drink, the smirk lingering.

The space between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it made her restless—her fingers tapping against the glass, an instinct pushing her to keep it going.

“So...” she started, her voice cutting through the lull. “Is the book any good?”

Harvey glanced sideways, his fingers tapping the spine of the book, like he wasn’t expecting her to continue. His focus shifted—just enough to make her smirk widen, a little surprise lingering in her chest.

“It’s alright,” he shrugged, nonchalant. “If history’s your thing.”

Mollie shifted in her seat, tracing the rim of her glass with her thumb. “I’ve actually been sorting through my grandpa’s old stuff. Found a bunch of WWII stuff. Letters, medals... even some photos from then.” She surprised herself with the admission. The words fell out easier than she expected.

“That’s neat,” Harvey replied. His fingers lightly drummed against the cover of his book, as if his attention had already shifted fully to her.

They fell into another lull, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... different. Charged. Mollie didn’t look at him right away, letting the pause sit for a beat too long before she picked up her beer again.

He took a sip at the same time she did, and that made her nerves tighten once more.

Fuck it.

Without thinking, she stood, the stool scraping against the floor. Harvey glanced up, surprised, but she didn’t give herself time to second-guess it. She slipped into the seat beside him, setting her drink down with more force than she meant to.

“This seat taken?” 

Harvey studied her for a moment, like he was trying to decide something. Then, finally, a quiet, unreadable smile pulled at his mouth. “Well,” he said, shifting slightly in his seat, making room for her, “it is now.”

Mollie folded her arms on the bar. She stared down at her beer, peeling at the corner of the label with her nail, watching it curl under her touch. Her mind itched with things she could say, but none of them felt right. Had hoped that maybe he would be the one to fill the silence, to be the first one to break. 

She let out a soft laugh, mostly to herself, shaking her head.

Harvey looked over. “What?”

She shook her head, then shrugged. “You’re hard to talk to, you know that?”

There was a flicker of something—humor maybe—in his eyes. “So I’ve been told.”

“Well,” she said, finally glancing over at him with a faint, nervous smile, “good thing I’m persistent.”

His reply came softer. “I’ve noticed.”

Before Mollie could respond, Gus returned with her food, a plate of spaghetti in one hand and a raised brow aimed squarely at the two of them. He set it down in front of her with a nod before heading back to the kitchen. Mollie twirled a forkful without thinking, taking a big bite.

It wasn’t until she was halfway through the bite that Harvey spoke again.

“I heard you’re from Zuzu city,” he said, not looking directly at her. His voice was low, conversational. Testing.

Mollie swallowed. “Born and raised.”

“Same.”

That surprised her. She wiped her mouth and paused, eyeing him curiously.

“How do you like Pelican Town?” he asked, and this time, his eyes met hers—for a moment, then back to his drink.

She considered the question for a moment, humming softly to herself as she stared at her plate. “It’s good,” she said slowly, like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “But sometimes it’s too…”

“Quiet?” Harvey offered, his voice softer now, like he knew exactly what she meant.

Mollie laughed, short and sharp, but not unkind. She looked at him, her smile crooked. “Exactly.”

The conversation drifted in and out, more of an interview than a real back-and-forth. Mollie had asked him things one after another, the words slipping out like they were part of a checklist. When did you move to Pelican Town? Five years ago. Do YOU like it? Yes, more than I liked the city. Do you like being a doctor? Yes .

His answers were short, to the point, but Mollie didn’t mind. There was a satisfaction in finally knowing a little more about him, even if the details were basic. It was a small kind of victory, really, getting past all the guardedness. She finished her spaghetti in between questions, drained her beer.

When Gus wandered by, Mollie motioned for another. To her surprise, Harvey did the same, asking for another whiskey. The way he sat back, the casual ask, it felt like he wasn’t in any hurry to leave, like he wanted to keep sitting here, keep talking—or not talking, at least. He didn’t say it outright, but the small gesture felt like a quiet invitation to keep the moment going. And Mollie didn’t mind the stillness in it, in fact, she relished in it.

Eventually, the night had thinned around them, the Saloon now dark and locked behind Gus’s heavy wooden door. The street was quiet, save for the faint chirp of crickets and the distant hush of waves rolling onto the beach. Mollie walked beside her bike, one hand curled around the handlebars, the other tucked into her jacket pocket. Harvey walked just to her right, their pace slow and unhurried, an easy rhythm shaped by the shared comfort of the past few hours.

The city had been the unexpected bridge—small, specific spots tucked into the sprawl that both of them knew. A bookstore on 8th. The hole-in-the-wall diner with the cracked leather booths and burnt coffee. A jazz bar Harvey used to visit after late shifts; a rooftop patio Mollie had once spent an entire summer frequenting. The surprise wasn’t just that they’d both been there—but that they remembered them the same way.

Mollie was in the middle of describing a Wilco concert she'd seen at the outdoor amphitheater downtown, her hands gesturing as she spoke.

“...and then they played ‘Jesus, Etc.,’ and the whole crowd just kind of stopped—like, no one was even singing along. Just listening. It was weird, but in a good way, you know?”

She realized then that they’d stopped walking. Harvey was standing still, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his gaze slightly distant but not unfocused. They were in front of the clinic, the soft porch light casting a dim glow over the faded paint and glass door.

“Unfinished patient files in there or something?” she teased, her grin loose, softened by beer and the comfort of the night.

Harvey huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “No. I, uh... actually live upstairs.”

Mollie’s gaze followed his upward, toward the small window above the clinic’s sign. A faint sliver of light glowed through the curtain.

“Oh. Cool.”

They stood there a beat too long. The kind of pause that felt like it should hold something—an invitation, maybe—but didn’t.

Harvey cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly. “Anyway… I should head to bed.”

“Oh. Yeah. For sure.” Mollie nodded, slipping her hands into her jacket pockets, her fingers brushing the frayed lining. 

Another pause.

Then Harvey broke it, his voice softer this time. “Thanks for the conversation.”

Mollie glanced up at him, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah. You too.”

His eyes met hers a moment longer than they needed to. Then he nodded and turned toward the stairs.

“Good night, Mollie.”

“You too.”

She biked away, not looking back. But his gaze lingered, stitched into the quiet of the street long after she’d gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Mushroom Punch

The house smelled like warm vanilla and something vaguely fried, a scent that had been baked into the walls after years of birthdays, holidays, and weeknight dinners. Sam stood behind the cake, grinning as the off-key, half-drunken chorus of Happy Birthday filled the room. His mom had insisted on candles, despite the fact that he was well past the age where anyone cared about the ritual. But there they were, flickering atop a homemade cake—too much frosting, uneven edges, but unmistakably made with care.

Vincent was practically vibrating beside him, hands clutched into tight fists like he was waiting for his turn to blow out the candles. Abigail and Sebastian were the loudest, dramatic in their delivery, while Haley barely moved her lips, arms crossed over her chest but a large smile on her face.

Mollie stood near the edge of the room, beer bottle in hand, watching the scene unfold. They’d been drinking for a while now, the garage still humming with the ghost of their earlier laughter, the smell of cheap beer and motor oil still clinging to their clothes.

Sam, in the center of it all. He was grinning—wide and easy, that same effortless charm he always carried. His mom stood behind him, one hand on Vincent’s shoulder, as if bracing to pull him back, a silent no to not blow the candles out. Her smile softer, a little tired, but full of something fond.

The candles flickered in the dim light, their glow reflecting in Sam’s blue eyes as he pressed his hands together in mock prayer. He shut his eyes, inhaled, lips twitching at the edges before he exhaled sharply, sending the flames sputtering out. The group erupted into cheers, half-hearted claps, someone whistling. Sam laughed, shaking his head.

“Alright, alright,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Who’s ready to get stupid tonight?”

A chorus of agreement rang through the house, someone cracking open another beer, someone else already stuffing their fingers into the cake’s frosting. Sam turned, his arm sliding around Mollie’s waist, tugging her in. She let him, let herself settle into the moment, the closeness. He smelled like cheap body spray and the lingering warmth of candle smoke.

“Hope you’re ready to get weird,” he murmured near her ear, his breath carrying the faintest hint of sugar.

Mollie smirked, tilting her head up to look at him. “Born ready.”

Mollie leaned over the pool table, lining up her shot, the smooth wood of the cue sliding between her fingers. The tip kissed the white ball, sending it spinning across the green felt, clipping the edge of a striped one before it lazily rolled into the pocket.

“Nice,” Sam said, grinning, beer in one hand, cue in the other. His face was flushed, from the heat or the drinks or just the energy of the night. Maybe all of it. “But I’m still gonna kick your ass.”

Mollie huffed a laugh, straightening, rolling her shoulders. “Big words for someone who’s scratched twice already.”

Sam scoffed, setting his drink down and leaning over the table, squinting at the layout like he was calculating something important. He took the shot—missed completely. Abigail cackled from the sidelines, lounging against the wall with a drink in her hand. Sebastian stood beside her, whispering something against her ear, their heads tilted close. They’d been like that all night, their own little pocket of secrecy.

Mollie’s gaze drifted to the other side of the bar, her fingers tightening slightly around her cue stick. Harvey sat at the counter, book in front of him, but he wasn’t reading. His glass of whiskey was half-finished, and he was talking to Gus, something easy about the way his mouth moved, the faintest smile tugging at the corners.

Harvey, smiling.

It wasn’t the polite, distant kind she’d caught before—the one he offered in passing, in brief moments of obligation. This one was real, relaxed, like he’d let himself sink into whatever Gus had said. His shoulders weren’t so stiff, his fingers tapped absently against the rim of his glass.

Mollie exhaled through her nose, tearing her eyes away before she lingered too long.

Sam cleared his throat dramatically. “Okay, so, that was a warm-up shot.”

Mollie smirked, gesturing toward the table. “By all means, take another.”

He did. It was just as bad. Abigail nearly choked on her drink laughing.

After Mollie won for the third time, she slumped down onto the booth beside Sebastian and Abigail, pressing her cold beer bottle against her flushed cheek. The bar was louder now, the kind of loud that came with too many drinks and not enough inhibitions. The jukebox had cycled through its usual rotation of classic rock and country twang, but no one was really listening. Laughter cracked sharp through the haze, conversations overlapping, voices a little too eager, a little too loose.

She turned to Abigail, narrowing her eyes. “What the hell are you two whispering about?”

Sebastian barely reacted, eyes flicking up just enough to acknowledge her before dropping back to his drink. Abigail, on the other hand, smirked, leaning in conspiratorially.

“We’re waiting for Shane,” she murmured, her breath warm with the scent of tequila and whatever cheap beer she’d been nursing.

Mollie pulled back slightly. “Shane?”

Abigail nodded, glancing toward the door like she expected him to appear out of thin air.

Mollie’s brows furrowed, her drunken mind working slower than she liked. “For what?”

Abigail’s smirk widened, and she lifted her glass to her lips before saying, voice quiet but teasing, “Party favors.”

Mollie blinked. Then it clicked.

“Oh.”

Sebastian finally spoke, a quiet chuckle leaving his throat. “Relax. It’s nothing crazy.”

“Yeah,” Abigail added. “Just a little… enhancement.”

Mollie huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Jesus.”

The idea of Shane as the town’s unofficial supplier didn’t surprise her in the slightest. She supposed there were worse ways to make ends meet.

Abigail nudged her knee under the table. “You in?”

Mollie paused, running her tongue over her teeth, considering. The night already felt stretched thin, on the edge of something. Everyone a little louder, a little sloppier, like the air was charged with the promise of something coming.

She took a slow sip of her beer, feeling the alcohol buzz through her veins, warming her from the inside out.

Why the hell not?

The night air outside the Saloon was thick with late summer warmth, the kind that clung to skin and made every breath feel heavier than it should. The glow from the neon sign bled out onto the cracked pavement, casting streaks of red and pink that flickered faintly with each sputter of the old light. The buzz of voices from inside softened as the door creaked shut behind them, replaced by the low hum of cicadas and the distant rush of waves against the docks.

Shane was already waiting near his truck, leaning against the dented fender like he’d been part of the scenery all along. A cigarette dangled from his lips, its ember glowing with each lazy drag, casting brief flashes of light across the sharp angles of his face. He barely looked up as they approached, just flicked the ash to the ground and nodded, like this was nothing more than a casual run-in.

“Shane,” Abigail greeted, her voice easy and bright, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Sebastian gave a slight nod, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. Mollie lingered a step behind them, her hands tucked into her jacket, fingers brushing the frayed lining. She met Shane’s glance briefly, a flicker of recognition passing between them—something unspoken about shared mornings at the farm, about knowing someone without really knowing them at all. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to acknowledge that here, in this different context, so she didn’t. Just mirrored his casual nod, keeping it simple.

Abigail got straight to the point, slipping Shane a crumpled wad of bills. No small talk, no questions. Shane fished into his jacket, pulling out a small, clear bag filled with dried mushrooms—brown, brittle things that looked more like forgotten snacks than anything mind-altering.

“That’s it?” Mollie blurted, her mouth moving before her brain could catch up. 

Shane’s lips twitched, not quite a smirk but close enough. “What’d you expect? A gift bag?”

Abigail laughed, shaking her head as she grabbed the bag, and even Mollie felt herself grin despite the awkward knot still lingering in her chest. She had expected something a little stronger than mushrooms, but she didn’t want to bring it up. Didn’t want her friends to know about her cravings for… other, more strong “party favors”. 

They didn’t bother finding somewhere private. Just drifted a little ways from the door, huddled near the edge of the parking lot where the glow from the Saloon lights faded into the dark. The night wrapped around them like a loose blanket, stitched together with the distant sound of someone’s bad singing bleeding through the walls.

Abigail opened the bag with zero ceremony, pinching out a small handful of shriveled caps and stems. She passed them around like it was nothing more significant than passing snacks at a sleepover. Mollie took hers without hesitation, the dried mushroom crumbling slightly between her fingers, earthy and bitter on her tongue as she swallowed it down with a quick sip of beer. The taste stuck, metallic and strange, but it didn’t matter.

No dramatic toasts, no wild declarations. Just quick bites, shared glances, and the undercurrent of anticipation humming beneath the surface.

“Well,” Abigail said after a beat, brushing her hands off on her jeans, “guess we wait.”

Mollie huffed out a small laugh, the knot in her chest loosening a bit as the warmth from the alcohol settled deeper into her ribs. “The fun part,” she muttered, tucking her hands back into her pockets.

Shane’s cigarette burned down to the filter, and he flicked it into the gravel with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Don’t get too philosophical,” he deadpanned, his voice low and dry, but there was a glint of something like amusement in his eyes.

Abigail rolled her eyes, already turning back toward the Saloon with Sebastian trailing behind her. Mollie lingered for half a second, her gaze flicking toward Shane one more time, uncertain if she should say something else. But he didn’t offer anything, just lit another cigarette and leaned back against the truck like he had nowhere better to be.

Mollie lifted her hand in a small, quick wave—just a flick of her fingers, casual like the way you’d wave at someone you didn’t know well enough to say goodbye to but too well to ignore. Shane’s mouth twitched, the barest hint of acknowledgment, and he tipped his chin up in a lazy nod, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curled into the night.

The night bled into itself, a watercolor smear of laughter, dim lights, and the faint, pulsing beat of music muffled by too many voices. Mollie floated somewhere in the middle of it all, her skin humming with the warmth of cheap beer and the subtle, creeping pulse of the mushrooms, soft and electric under her ribs.

She’d lost track of time. Could’ve been an hour. Could’ve been three. It didn’t matter. The edges of things had blurred—colors too saturated, voices echoing like they were bouncing off invisible walls. The wood-paneled walls of the Saloon seemed to breathe with her, expanding and contracting, as if the whole place was in on the joke.

She turned to Abigail, who was equally transfixed—except she was staring at her own hands, turning them over like she’d never seen them before.

Their eyes met, pupils blown wide, and they burst into laughter. Loud, uncontrollable, the kind that cracked something open inside her chest.

“What the fuck is so funny?” Haley snapped, her sharp voice cutting through their haze like a thrown rock into water.

Which only made them laugh harder, collapsing into each other. Haley rolled her eyes and stomped off toward Sam, muttering under her breath, probably something unflattering.

Sebastian slid in next to Abigail, his grin lopsided. “The second she figures it out, she’s gonna hound us for some.”

“Not happening,” Abigail said, leaning into him slightly, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m not babysitting her again. We do not need a repeat of last time.”

Mollie blinked slowly, trying to process their words, though they felt distant, like someone else’s memory. “What happened last time?”

Abigail waved a hand dramatically. “Oh, God. She freaked out, called Dr. Harvey. Like, sobbing, convinced she was stuck in a video game or something. Poor guy had no idea what to do with her.”

Mollie snorted, imagining Harvey’s deadpan face as Haley melted down in front of him. “What’d he do?”

“Let her crash in one of the clinic beds. We were tripping too hard to be helpful,” Sebastian added, grinning.

Mollie nodded thoughtfully, her gaze drifting toward the bar—toward Harvey. He sat at the end, his attention low on his phone, thumb scrolling lazily, a glass of something red now sitting half-forgotten beside him. The light from the screen cast faint shadows along the sharp lines of his face, softening the usual furrow of his brow.

She wondered, fleetingly, what it would be like to have his number. To call him in the middle of a shroom-induced meltdown, not because she needed actual help, but because his voice seemed like the kind that could pull someone back from the edge. The thought made her snort softly to herself, shaking it off like a stray thread.

Some country song kicked in through the dusty speakers, too bright and jangly, slicing through her thoughts.

“I’m changing this,” she muttered, standing a little too fast. The ground shifted slightly under her feet, not enough to unnerve her—just enough to remind her she wasn’t entirely grounded.

The jukebox felt like it was miles away, the floor stretching as she walked toward it. She giggled quietly at the thought, fumbling through song options until she landed on something layered and dreamlike, distorted vocals washing over her like warm water.

When she turned around, Harvey was looking at her.

Not just looking—watching.

Their eyes met, and for a second, the noise of the room dulled, like someone had pressed the mute button on everything but this. He gave her a polite nod, then looked away, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

Her heart thudded, the echo of it pulsing in her fingertips.

Mollie made her way to the bar, sliding onto a stool a few seats down from him. Gus greeted her with a grin. “Another beer, Mols?”

She nodded, trying to keep her face neutral, casual—like she wasn’t hyper-aware of the man sitting just out of reach.

And then, to her surprise, it wasn’t Gus’s voice she heard next.

“Interesting song.”

She blinked, caught off guard. He was looking at her, not in the distracted, half-there way he usually did, but fully—present. Engaged. Like he wanted to say it.

Mollie smirked, recovering quickly. “Broken Social Scene.”

“Hmm.” He nodded slightly, glancing toward the speakers like he was giving it a proper listen. “Never heard of them.”

“They’re good,” she said, shrugging. “One of my favorites.”

Gus returned with her beer, setting it down with a nod before moving on. She took a sip, letting the coolness anchor her, even though her heart was doing that dumb thing again—beating a little too fast with every glance from Harvey.

“Are you enjoying your evening?” He asked, and there it was again—that unfamiliar ease in his voice, like the usual tightness had been unwound just enough to let something softer through.

“Yeah,” she replied, the word dragging out lazily on her tongue. “It’s Sam’s birthday. We’re celebrating.”

His gaze flicked toward their table—Sam laughing too loud, Haley dramatically trying to pull him into a dance, Sebastian and Abigail folded into their own private world.

“Looks lively,” he said, his lips curving into the faintest smile.

Mollie found herself leaning in slightly, emboldened by the warmth in her chest—the beer, the shrooms, the undeniable pull toward him. “You letting loose tonight?” she asked, nodding toward his wine glass.

Harvey huffed a soft laugh, swirling the liquid. “This is about as loose as it gets these days.”

“Well, you’re missing out.”

He tilted his head, the smile lingering. “I prefer observing.”

“Of course you do,” she shot back, grinning as she took another sip.

Before he could respond, Sam appeared, all noise and energy, slinging an arm around Mollie’s shoulders, claiming the space there. She tensed instinctively, her smile tightening.

“Yo, Dr. Harvey!” Sam shouted, his breath warm against her temple. “Birthday shot with me?”

Harvey’s eyes flicked to Sam’s arm, then back to Mollie. Something shifted in his expression—quick, almost invisible—but she caught it.

She wriggled out from under Sam’s arm with ease, laughing it off. “You’re on your own, Doctor.” She could hear Sam's laughter as he turned to Gus to order the shots.

As she turned to leave, she felt a light touch on her arm—Harvey’s fingers, brief but electric. She looked back, eyes wide.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the noise around them. Just for her. “Don’t let Haley get into your… goodies. I don’t want an emergency call at two in the morning.”

Mollie blinked, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. She hadn’t expected him to notice. To know.

“Your pupils,” he said simply, smirking at her, one finger pointing to his own eyes. “Kind of a giveaway.”

Mollie’s face flushed, heat blooming beneath her skin. A nervous chuckle escaped before she could stop it, too sharp, too quick. She recovered with a mock salute, trying to plaster on something cool, casual.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, her grin lingering as she walked away, her skin still buzzing where his fingers had been.

Mollie settled back beside Abigail and Sebastian. Haley’s eyes snapped to them the second Mollie sat down, her arms crossed tight over her chest, pout practically carved into her face. She shifted in her seat with the exaggerated annoyance only Haley could pull off, then leaned forward slightly, her gaze cutting between the three of them.

“I know what you guys are up to.”

Abigail didn’t miss a beat, leaning back with a smug little smile, her voice sweet but sharp as glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mollie stood at the jukebox, her fingertips tracing over the smudged plastic buttons, the surface strangely glossy beneath her skin—too smooth, almost like it was sweating. The music playing had taken on a strange edge. The steel guitars whined a little too sharp, the vocals too nasally, like the sound was sliding under her skin and settling somewhere behind her ribs.

She blinked, trying to focus, to center herself. Everything felt slightly off, like someone had tilted the world by a few degrees. The bar was still just a bar—same dim lights, same faint smell of beer and fryer grease—but her awareness of it had shifted. The way the light bounced off the jukebox. The way someone’s laugh behind her sounded like it was coming through a hallway.

And Harvey.

She didn’t have to see him to know he was watching her.

Not obviously. He’d never stare. But he knew .

She could feel it in the way the air shifted when she moved. The way her spine prickled with every slow blink. Her shoulders rolled back—casual, easy—but her jaw was too tight, and she kept breathing through her nose like that would make her look more composed.

She tried to act like she was just picking a song, like this was the most normal thing in the world and not a deeply technical challenge. Her eyes flicked across the song titles, none of them registering. She pressed a random button. Then another.

Too fast. That was too fast.

Normal pace. Pick like a normal person would pick.

A half-smile tugged at her lips, just to try it on. It didn’t help.

He knew.

She knew he knew.

He knew she knew he knew.

It looped in her head like the world’s most annoying mantra.

Still, she kept facing the machine, pretending she wasn’t being perceived. The jukebox whirred and clicked, a song she didn’t recognize queuing up as her reflection warped slightly in the plastic casing. She looked weird. She always looked weird under this kind of lighting, right?

A small laugh echoed from the bar. A glass clinked too loud against a table. It wasn’t a bad vibe, exactly—just...heightened. Like her nerves had turned into antennae.

And then, slicing through it all, came a voice—loud, loose, and slurred. It made her flinch, just barely.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me, you little bitch!”

Mollie’s head snapped up, heart stuttering. Pam stood near the bar, face flushed with booze and rage, her words slashing through the warm haze of the Saloon. Penny was there, small and shrinking beside her, her arms crossed tight, jaw clenched like she was holding herself together by sheer force.

Mollie’s feet stayed planted, but her stomach dropped, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. She watched—watched the way Penny’s face crumpled just a little, her eyes glassy, darting to the floor like if she didn’t meet Pam’s eyes, it would hurt less.

Mollie knew that look.

Knew it like muscle memory.

Pam’s voice rose again, meaner this time, laced with something sharp and familiar. Mollie looked away, back at the jukebox. She focused on her reflection in the glass—distorted, unfamiliar. But the shouting didn’t stop.

Another yell.

Louder. Meaner. Closer.

Mollie’s head whipped around, heart pounding, that buzzing heat rising fast. Pam’s arm shot out, wild and unsteady, her hand clenched around Penny’s wrist, pulling hard enough to make her stumble. Penny’s eyes met Mollie’s for a split second—wide, scared, begging.

And that was it.

Mollie moved without thinking, her body cutting through the crowd like she wasn’t in it, like none of it was real. Her heart thudded in her ears, her chest tight, breath shallow.

She stepped between them.

“That’s enough,” she said, her voice low but solid, the kind of voice she wished someone had used for her once.

Pam blinked, thrown off. “Who the hell are you?”

Mollie didn’t flinch. “Don’t speak to her that way.”

Pam’s lip curled, eyes narrowing, her breath hot with whiskey. “Not your business.”

“It is now.”

And then it happened.

Quick. Stupid.

Pam shoved her.

It wasn’t hard—just a sloppy, drunken push, more rage than strength behind it. Mollie stumbled back, her hip catching the edge of a barstool. The pain didn’t come from the impact, though. It wasn’t the sharp jolt of bone meeting wood. It was the act itself—a ripple through time, an echo of every shove, every grab, every time her mother’s hands had been faster than her own feet.

It wasn’t Pam’s push that knocked the air out of her.

It was the memory buried underneath it.

The room spun, not from the shrooms, not from the shove, but from the way it all felt too familiar. The heat in her chest burned, her throat tight, vision tunneling.

Then chaos.

Chairs scraping, voices rising, bodies moving too fast, too loud. Sam was there, his arm around Penny, pulling her away. Gus’ voice cut through the noise, sharp and angry, but Mollie couldn’t make out the words. She pushed past them, her breath caught somewhere deep, chest aching.

Mollie stumbled out of the Saloon, the door swinging shut behind her with a final, heavy thud that seemed to cut the night in two. The warmth and noise dissolved in an instant, replaced by the sharp slap of cool air against her skin. The muffled hum of music and voices still leaked through the walls, but out here, it was thinner, distant—like it belonged to another world.

She didn’t stop walking until she reached the side of the building, hidden from the glow of the streetlights, swallowed by shadow. The gravel crunched under her boots, grounding her just enough to stay upright. She collapsed against the cool, rough siding of the Saloon, sliding down until she was crouched low, her arms wrapped tight around her knees.

Her chest felt too small, ribs pressing in like a vise. Each breath was a struggle—tight, shallow, not enough. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, willing the pressure to push back the rising tide of panic, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Her head dropped, hands tangled in her hair, pulling at the roots like she could tear the panic out. But it was inside, deep, spreading fast. Her heart raced, a wild, uneven drum, her vision blurring at the edges.

She wasn’t in Pelican Town anymore.

She was six years old, standing in the kitchen, her mother’s voice slicing through the air like broken glass. She was twelve, shoved against the doorframe, the sting of words landing harder than the slap. She was every version of herself, all at once, folded into this moment, this breath, this ache.

And she couldn’t breathe.

A while later, she heard gravel crunched under steady footsteps, a sound too precise, too measured to belong to a drunk stumbling into the night. Mollie didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. She knew who it was when he cleared his throat.

Harvey’s presence settled beside her without fanfare, not too close, not far enough to feel distant. She felt it more than saw it, a weight in the darkness anchoring her to the present. Her breath was still ragged, sharp gasps like she was pulling air through a straw. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her jeans, trying to ground herself, but the edges of everything felt too loose, too far away.

“Mollie,” his voice was soft, not like the clipped professionalism she was used to hearing in the clinic. This was quieter, careful, but firm enough to cut through the static roaring in her head.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head because she couldn’t—couldn’t answer, couldn’t think, couldn’t be here.

“Hey,” he tried again, this time a little closer, his voice a tether. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

No , she wanted to say, but the word stayed lodged in her throat.

“I need you to breathe with me,” he said gently, like he’d done this before, like this was routine. Maybe it was for him. But it wasn’t for her. For her, it felt like dying.

“Just listen to me,” he continued, his voice low, steady. “In through your nose.”

She tried, but it hitched halfway, her chest too tight, her lungs too small.

“That’s okay,” he murmured, unbothered by her failure. “Try again. In. Slow.”

This time, she caught the breath, shaky and uneven, but it was something.

“Good. Now out.”

Her body obeyed before her mind caught up, the exhale ragged but real.

“That’s it. Just like that.”

She clung to his voice, followed the rhythm he set, breath by breath. The world didn’t right itself all at once, but the edges stopped spinning, the air stopped slicing through her like glass. Her chest loosened enough to feel the ache beneath it.

When she finally peeled her hands away from her face, the cool air hit her damp skin. She blinked against the darkness, her vision blurry.

Harvey was watching her, his expression worried, but his posture was relaxed, grounded. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to fix her, just there to make sure she didn’t fall apart alone.

“You’re doing great,” he said quietly, then added with the faintest curve of a smile, “Here I thought I’d be taking care of Haley by the end of the night.”

It was stupid. Barely a joke. But it snagged a shaky laugh from her chest, one that surprised her with how real it felt, even if it was thin around the edges.

She looked up fully then, her breath steadier, and caught the small detail she’d missed in the haze: his hand, hovering just inches from her shoulder, suspended like he’d been about to reach out but wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. When she spotted it, he lowered his arm.

“Sorry,” she croaked, her voice foreign, thin and stretched.

“You don’t have to be.”

She huffed out something between a laugh and a sob, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her jacket. The fabric was rough, grounding in its texture.

“Pam,” she started, her throat tight, “she just—” Mollie stopped, swallowing hard. “She reminded me of someone.”

Harvey nodded slowly, like he understood more than she said. Maybe he did.

Before either of them could fill the space that followed, a voice cut through the night, too loud, too careless.

Mollie flinched at the sudden noise, the fragile calm in her chest rattling like glass in a storm.

“There you are!” Sam stumbled into view, his grin sloppy, his arm slung around an imaginary person. His eyes landed on Mollie, then flicked to Harvey, confusion knitting his brows. “Everything okay?”

Harvey shifted slightly, his body language subtle but firm—a wall built without bricks.

“She’s fine,” Harvey said evenly, standing up and brushing off his pants like the moment hadn’t been carved into stone just seconds ago. “But someone should walk her home.”

Sam straightened, nodding like it was a mission he was born for. “Yeah, of course.”

Mollie got to her feet, her legs shaky but holding. Harvey didn’t offer a hand, and she was grateful for that. She didn’t want to feel fragile.

Their eyes met for a brief moment—hers raw, his steady.

“Thanks,” she muttered, the word too small for what it meant.

Harvey just nodded, already moving to head back into the Saloon. 

Sam’s arm was too familiar, too loose around her shoulders. She let him talk, his words a blur of comfort she didn’t need, words slipping past her like water, her mind stuck on the steady rhythm of Harvey’s voice, the almost-touch that felt like it had landed anyway.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Less Of A Stranger

She’d been at Evelyn’s all week, dirt caked beneath her fingernails, sleeves pushed up past her elbows despite the crisp bite in the air. The days had stretched thin since Sam’s birthday—long enough to pretend she wasn’t still carrying it around, short enough that it still lived just under her skin, an echo of embarrassment she couldn’t shake. 

She’d been taking it easy since then, or at least that’s what she told herself. Easier to keep her hands busy, her head down. She hadn’t seen Harvey since—not really. Just flashes of him at a distance. The flick of his coat around a corner. The blur of his running shoes on the road. Once, she thought he saw her too, but she ducked into the general store before it could turn into anything. And she wasn’t avoiding him because of anything he’d done, but because seeing him again meant acknowledging the way his voice had pulled her back from the edge, steady and grounding in a way that left her exposed. Embarrassment wasn’t the right word. It was sharper than that. Like trying to smooth out crumpled paper.

She didn’t take her early morning walks to the beach anymore. She told herself it was because the season had shifted, that the morning cold didn’t suit her. But the real reason was simpler. Back then, when she passed him on the trail, he’d nod or lift a hand in greeting. Now, she was afraid he’d stop. That he’d want to talk about it.

She didn’t know what she’d say.

So instead, she kept moving. Kept showing up at Evelyn’s. Helping inside the house when the garden was too wet to manage. Baking bread. Dusting window sills. Carrying heavy baskets and rearranging pantry shelves. Anything that kept her from thinking too long or feeling too much.

Evelyn had been looking worse for wear—not in the obvious ways, not enough for most people to notice. But Mollie did. She caught it in the faint tremor of Evelyn’s hands when she lifted a basket, in the slow, deliberate way she lowered herself into a chair, as if her joints had started to protest against her body. Still peppy, still sharp with her stories and the occasional barked command that made Mollie snort under her breath. But underneath all that—something else. A slowness in the way she moved, a breath caught just a beat too long. Mollie had noticed, though neither of them said anything about it. That was how it worked, wasn’t it? Pretend long enough and maybe it wasn’t there.

Now, she was back inside, standing at Evelyn’s worn kitchen counter, wrists deep in a bowl of dough. The air smelled of yeast and old wood, of rosemary and sun-warmed apples left on the windowsill. Evelyn hummed softly from across the kitchen as she greased a pan.

The dough stuck to Mollie’s fingers in thick clumps. She tore off bits and rolled them into loose knots, the repetition strangely soothing. The flour had gotten everywhere—across the counters, dusting her shirt, under her nails—and she didn’t even care. It felt good to be doing something simple.

Her hands kept working, but her mind started to drift.

The kitchen in this memory was warm, the windows slightly fogged. A tiny apartment kitchen in the city. Yellow tiles and cracked linoleum. A record spinning something old in the corner, her dad moving around with sleeves rolled up, hair still wet from the shower. He’d hand her a wooden spoon like it was a magic wand, tap her chin with a smile.

“Kitchen witch,” he used to call her.

She hadn’t thought about that in years.

She’d stand on a chair, balancing precariously, elbow-deep in cinnamon sugar. He always let her knead the dough, even though she was terrible at it, even though her hands were too small and everything came out lopsided. He’d nudge her aside at the last minute to keep things from burning, but he never made her feel like she was in the way.

She blinked hard, coming back into herself, back into this kitchen. Evelyn’s kitchen. 

“Where’d you go just now?” Evelyn asked gently, not looking up from the bowl she was mixing. Her voice wasn’t prying, just soft with curiosity.

Mollie stared at her hands. “Just a memory,” she said, then paused. “Of my dad.”

Evelyn said nothing, waiting.

“We used to bake together,” Mollie went on, almost surprising herself. “Not bread—cinnamon rolls, mostly. Messy ones. Or some wild concoction for dinner. He was always the cook in our house. My mom couldn’t be bothered, but he made a whole thing of it. Let me help, even when I ruined everything.”

Evelyn smiled at that, a quiet kind of warmth spreading across her face. “Do you still bake often?”

Mollie shrugged, pushing a thumb through the sticky seam of dough. “Not really. Not like that. But…” She paused, working the dough with more care than necessary. “I guess I like it. It’s calming. Something about the rhythm of it, maybe.”

“Well, you’re a natural,” Evelyn said, matter-of-fact. “You’ve been helping me for weeks and not a single thing’s turned out flat. That’s not nothing.”

Mollie huffed a laugh. “Beginner’s luck.”

“No such thing in baking,” Evelyn said, wagging a finger toward her. “It’s all feel. Instinct. You come by it honestly.”

Mollie looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Well, your grandmother was a baker,” Evelyn said, smiling as she worked a dough scraper through the bowl. “Had a little shop in town for years. She’d have a line of people waiting most mornings, even after she got sick.”

Mollie blinked, stunned. “Really?”

“Sure did. She baked almost until the end. I always thought it kept her going.” Evelyn’s eyes flicked up to Mollie. “You remind me of her a lot, you know. Same cheekbones. Same stare when you're thinking hard about something.”

Mollie didn’t answer. She thought of the photo she'd found in a box, her grandmother in a sun-faded apron, caught mid-laugh with flour on her arms. A woman frozen in time. A woman her mother never mentioned, not unless pressed. And even then, only in sharp-edged fragments.

“I think losing her changed my mom,” Mollie said eventually. 

Evelyn didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. 

The silence held, thick and slow. Wind moved through the trees outside, brushing against the window in short, quick motions. Mollie kept her eyes on the loaves, cloth still draped over them. One was starting to rise at the corners. A steady lift, like it was taking a breath.

She’d already started slipping again—back to the photo, the kitchen, her father’s voice in the walls—when Evelyn spoke.

“What are your plans.”

Not a question. A cut.

Mollie blinked. “What?”

“With the house,” Evelyn said. “The land. Are you staying. Leaving. Letting it rot. Selling it to some rich idiot with no connection to this town.”

Mollie looked down. Bit the inside of her cheek and only shrugged in response.

“That’s not a real answer,” Evelyn said. “You’ve been here for months, and you still haven’t made a choice. No work. No income. You just linger.”

Mollie laughed, low. “You trying to parent me or something?”

“Someone needs to.”

That shut her up.

She shifted her weight. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said. Which was the truth. She had no clue what she was doing, hadn’t for a long time. “I didn’t mean to stay this long. I thought I’d just… I don’t know. I want to stay, but I also want to get the hell out of here, you know?”

Evelyn didn’t move.

“And how are you even surviving?” she asked. “I don’t pay you. I feed you, sure, but I don’t know how you’re getting by.”

Mollie exhaled through her nose. “Well, Frank left me money. For the farm, I guess.”

A beat.

“I think he wanted me to fix it. Bring it back. But it didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like being dropped into the deep end. I was nineteen. What the hell was I supposed to do with acres of land and a wad of cash?”

She scrubbed a hand across her face. “So I’ve been using that. And what I saved from waitressing. It’s not a plan, I know. But I’m not a farmer. I barely know how to mow the damn grass.”

Evelyn didn’t speak. She pulled the cloth from the loaves and slid them into the oven. The heat rolled out like breath.

She didn’t turn around.

Mollie watched her back. “Are you mad?”

“No.”

Evelyn untied her apron, folded it clean. Draped it over a chair.

Then she walked out of the room.

“Come with me,” she said.

Mollie hesitated. “Where?”

But Evelyn was already out the door.

She followed Evelyn out into the cold without asking again where they were going. The air had that thin, metallic taste of late autumn, the kind that made her wish she’d grabbed a heavier coat. Evelyn walked ahead, steady but slower than she used to, her scarf trailing just enough to catch the light from the streetlamps.

They turned past the square—past the diner, past the clinic—and kept on until the pavement gave way to cracked asphalt and empty lots. Mollie realized she’d never been this far north.

The building stood alone, squat against the wind. Paint peeling in long strips. Windows clouded over with grime. 

Evelyn stopped in front of it, hands in her pockets. She didn’t speak right away. When she did, her voice was softer than Mollie expected.

“Your grandmother’s place,” she said. “Ours, for a while.”

Mollie glanced at her. “This was hers?”

Evelyn’s smile barely lifted one side of her mouth. “A bakery. She ran it most of her life. Rhubarb pies, sourdough, cinnamon twists that sold out before noon. She let me sell flowers here—tucked them in by the window. It was our little arrangement.” She looked at the building like she could see through the boards, see the old counters and the smell of warm sugar still hanging in the air.

“It kept her busy while your grandfather worked the farm,” Evelyn went on. “And it gave me something after George died. Something worth getting up for.” She breathed out slowly, the sound almost a laugh. “We kept each other afloat, I think. Until she was gone.”

“And after?” Mollie asked.

“I couldn’t keep it going alone.” Evelyn’s eyes tracked a loose shutter banging against the frame. “Sold it. Since then, it’s been nothing but doomed ventures. Coffee shop. Ice cream parlor. Some guy tried to make it a vape store.” Her nose wrinkled. “None of them lasted. And now—” She gestured at the sagging doorway. “This.”

Mollie shoved her hands deeper into her pockets. She didn’t know what Evelyn was building toward, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“You bake like she did,” Evelyn said finally. “Lose yourself in it. I don’t see that in you with much else.”

Mollie huffed a laugh. “So what, you want me to buy it? Turn it back into a bakery?”

“Maybe.” Evelyn didn’t look at her. “The farm’s been dead for years. You keep pouring money into it, it’ll eat you alive. But this—” She tapped the window glass with a knuckle. “This could be something. Could be yours.”

Mollie shook her head. “I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve never run a business. I can’t even fix a leaky sink.”

“Don’t worry about that now,” Evelyn said, already turning away. “Just think about it.”

Mollie stared at the building another moment. The wind slid cold against her neck. “Yeah,” she said finally, though it came out half-empty.

Evelyn didn’t answer. She was already walking back the way they’d come.

Later, in bed, Mollie’s thoughts raced.

A whole chain of people behind her. Names she didn’t know, hands she’d never held. And somehow they’d all spilled forward until here she was, left with whatever they couldn’t finish.

She’d had to build herself from nothing. No one there to say, this is where you come from, this is what you’re made of. Just guesses. Scraps. Filling in the blanks with whatever would hold.

It stayed with her. A weight in the chest. Heavy and old.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Autumn Sweater

She’d been helping with the harvest, roped into it under the guise of Evelyn needing “an extra pair of young hands.” Mollie had rolled her eyes, muttering she wasn’t that young, but she stayed. Dug her fingers into soil that crumbled like stale cake in some places, clung stubbornly in others. Pulled at roots that resisted until they came up with a pop, streaked with the smell of rot and rain. It hadn’t taken long to find a rhythm in it—the kind of work that kept the mind too busy to wander far.

Now she sat on the back steps, a pile of wildflowers spilling across her lap, scissors loose in her fingers. The steps sagged toward the yard, edges splintered and grayed, the wood soft in places from years of weather and boots and maybe a little neglect. Somewhere in the yard, the last light pooled in the ruts worn deep by wheelbarrow wheels.

She worked without thinking—goldenrod against deep purple asters, brittle grass slipped between. Twine scraped her fingertips as she tied each bunch, the knots awkward but holding. A bee blundered past, drunk on what was left of the day.

Evelyn came out humming something low and tuneless, a mug cupped in her palm, her apron damp and creased like she’d used it to wipe her hands. She lowered herself into the spot beside Mollie, the wood sighing under her weight.

“Those look good,” she said, tilting her head toward the bouquets. “Told you you had an eye.”

Mollie tied off another bunch. “It’s not that hard.”

“It is if you want them to look like more than weeds,” Evelyn said, sipping from her mug. She let the quiet stretch before adding, “We’ll have a decent table this year. Flowers, vegetables… maybe something from the oven, if you’re up for it.”

Mollie glanced over.

“Breads, maybe. Pies. Folks like something sweet with their coffee while they walk the stalls.” Evelyn’s gaze flicked toward the yard. “Could do you some good, having people taste what you make instead of just me.”

Mollie didn’t answer. She picked up another handful of flowers, the stems cool and damp against her skin, and got back to work. The scissors made soft snipping sounds, steady and rhythmic, cutting through the kind of quiet that felt almost sacred. She found herself wishing she could bottle this—this feeling, this moment. The warmth of the sun, the faint ache in her hands from work well done, the soft hum of Evelyn beside her.

The rake scraped against the earth with a soft, rhythmic whisper, brittle leaves gathering in hesitant piles at her feet. The air carried the sharp scent of damp earth and crisp decay, the bite of woodsmoke curling from some distant chimney. The sky hung low, a muted wash of gray, soft enough to press against the trees, their spines bending beneath the weight of another season shifting.

Mollie dragged the rake through another patch, the motion steady, methodical. The farm stretched around her in muted golds and reds, the ground a patchwork of fallen leaves, damp and curling at the edges. It was autumn, through and through—the air just cold enough to bite at the tips of her ears, just warm enough that she could get by without a jacket if she kept moving.

She loved it. Always had.

Autumn was often overlooked, she thought, because it was always bringing something colder with it. A chill that settled deep in your bones, a winter that bit at its ankles like a shadow creeping closer. But that’s what made it feel so precious, so fleeting. A slow death, yes—but a beautiful one. Summer’s riotous green burning out into fire, the world tilting into something quieter, sharper, waiting for the first true frost to blanket it still.

She raked another row, the leaves dry and whispering as they tumbled over each other, some catching in the wind and twisting upward before drifting back down. The trees were almost bare now, their branches reaching into the sky like old hands, knotted and trembling. She’d seen birds flying south yesterday, dark silhouettes slicing across the sky, their wings beating toward something warmer, something easier. She wondered what that must feel like—to know exactly when to leave, to have it written into your bones that you didn’t belong in the cold.

Resting the rake against her shoulder, she stretched her fingers and watched her breath curl into the air.

A memory surfaced, slow and unbidden—her father, standing in their tiny, patchy yard, rake in hand, the late afternoon light catching in his dark hair, in the worn flannel stretched across his shoulders. She must’ve been four, maybe five. The world had felt bigger then, the piles of leaves endless. He’d raked them into careful mounds, only for her to destroy them the second he finished, her laughter piercing through the crisp air. He hadn’t gotten mad, hadn’t told her to stop. He’d just smiled, shaking his head, and started over.

She tried to remember the last time she saw him rake a pile of leaves. The last time she jumped into one. She couldn’t.

The wind picked up, loosening strands of hair from her ponytail and scattering part of the pile she’d just made.

“Well, shit,” she muttered, setting back to work.

The walk to Evelyn’s the next day felt longer than usual, colder. Mollie stuffed her hands deeper into her jacket pockets, head down, her boots scuffing against the gravel path. The sky was stretched thin, pale blue with streaks of cloud like someone had dragged their fingers through it.

She spotted him before she spotted Evelyn—Harvey, standing at the front steps, arms full of produce boxes, his brow furrowed in concentration as he adjusted his grip. The sight of him hit harder than she expected. She’d been good at avoiding him since Sam’s birthday, weaving around the edges of town, slipping out of rooms a second too soon. Not because of anything he’d done—he’d been nothing but decent—but because seeing him meant remembering. And she hated remembering.

But he didn’t falter when he saw her. No pity, no soft-eyed concern, just a polite nod like any other day. 

Evelyn appeared in the doorway, waving with one hand, the other braced against the frame. “Mollie! You’re just in time to save Harvey from dropping everything.”

Mollie stepped up onto the porch, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Wouldn’t want to be responsible for the great squash disaster of the year.”

Harvey gave a quiet laugh, shifting the box higher on his hip. “Heavier than it looks.”

“He’s offered to drive our things to the fair,” Evelyn called over her shoulder. “Saves me the trouble.”

Mollie glanced at the stack of boxes, already feeling the familiar ache in her arms from the work she knew was coming. She moved to grab one from the porch, fingers brushing too close to Harvey’s as they both reached for the same one. Just a second of contact, skin against skin, and it felt like static. She picked the box up, clearing her throat.

“You’re coming too, right?”

Evelyn waved the question off with a flick of her hand. “Not today. I’m staying home.”

Mollie paused, squinting at her. Evelyn looked the same as always—apron dusted with flour, hair pinned back just so—but there was something different. Nothing big enough to point out without sounding dramatic.

“You alright?” 

“I’ll live.” Evelyn smiled without letting it reach her eyes. “You can handle the booth.”

Mollie glanced at the stack of boxes, the thought of hours standing alone under the thin autumn sun already pressing against her ribs. But what could she say?

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” she muttered, forcing a smile.

Evelyn smiled back like that was good enough.

They loaded the last of the boxes in silence. The trunk shut with a dull thud. Harvey brushed his palms against his jeans.

“I’ll give you a ride,” he said, his voice even.

Mollie hesitated, the automatic no perched on the edge of her tongue. But then she glanced back at Evelyn, who was already disappearing inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

“Yeah,” Mollie said finally, wiping her hands on her jacket. “Sure.”

Harvey only nodded, circling to the driver’s side. She slid into the passenger seat, the car door closing with a quiet, final sound.

Harvey’s car was exactly how Mollie figured it’d be—old, older than her probably, but spotless. The kind of clean that didn’t come from obsessive polishing, just careful ownership. No trash in the footwells, no forgotten coffee cups or crumpled receipts shoved between the seats. Just neat. Pristine enough that her muddy boots felt like an apology waiting to happen.

It smelled faintly of pine, sharp and clean, from the little tree hanging off the rearview mirror, its green faded to a tired shade. The dash was plain. The radio was the kind with a dial, its buttons worn smooth.

Mollie buckled herself in, the seatbelt clicking with an abrupt finality, and glanced out the window as Harvey pulled onto the road. The silence settled in almost immediately—awkward, but not unbearable. Just enough to make her hyper-aware of every small noise: the faint hum of the tires on pavement, the soft creak of the seat when she shifted, the rhythmic flick of Harvey’s thumb against the steering wheel.

After a minute, he reached for the radio, fiddling with the dial until a faint crackle gave way to a song—old, grainy, and warm, like something pulled from a dusty corner of her childhood. The melody drifted into the space between them.

Mollie hummed without thinking. Halfway through the chorus she noticed herself and cut it off, heat prickling her neck. She glanced over.

He’d noticed. His mouth twitched. “You know this song?”

“Yeah.” She let her head rest against the cool window. “My dad used to play it in the car. Had this awful mixtape he made back when people still made those.”

Harvey chuckled, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel in time with the beat. “I had a few of those back in the day. Probably still do somewhere.”

“What was on it? Lots of embarrassing stuff?”

He huffed out a soft laugh. “Depends on your definition of embarrassing. Mostly old folk rock, a lot of songs that sound better on crappy speakers.”

“That’s the best kind,” she said. “Songs built for shitty stereos.”

That pulled a real smile out of him—small, but it stayed. The road ran ahead in long gray strips, trees half-undressed, sky pressed low.

The next track came in a little rough, twangy around the edges. Harvey turned the volume down a notch.

“This thing gets, like, three stations,” he said, almost apologizing.

She snorted. “Yeah, I can tell. Real cutting-edge stuff.”

“Hey, this was top-tier radio back in… whenever.”

“The Stone Age?”

“Close.”

They drove. The quiet came back, lighter now. Mollie rubbed her palms on her jeans as a chill settled in. And then Harvey adjusted a vent so it angled toward her. Warm air found her hands. The silent gesture, him noticing, made Mollie bite the inside of her cheek.

Then, like he’d been thinking about it for a while, Harvey asked, “So… you’re into music, then?”

She glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “No, I hate it.”

His laugh was quick, caught off guard. She let herself enjoy that.

“Yeah,” she added. “I’m “into music”.” 

“What kind?”

She thought about it, letting the road do its soft shush under the tires.

“A lot of different stuff,” she said. “Depends on the mood. I’ve got a soft spot for older rock, though. And folk rock.” She tipped her head toward the speakers. “So we might overlap.”

“We might,” he said.

“You like anything other than folk rock?”

“I do.” A beat. “I like jazz. A lot.”

She turned, eyebrows up. “Of course you do.”

He glanced over, amused. “What does that mean?”

“You just strike me as a jazz listener.” Mollie gave him a side-eye, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips. “Do you own a turtleneck, too?”

The tips of his ears went a little red.

“No.”

“Shame. That would really complete the look.”

He huffed, the corner of his mouth threatening to turn up. He kept his eyes on the road; she kept hers on him, watching his shoulders lose that rigid set one notch at a time. The line of his jaw softened. He breathed easier. It made something in her settle.

She looked back out the window, still smiling. “You know, I think this is the most I’ve heard you talk.”

“Must be catching me on a good day.”

“Or maybe I’m just really charming.”

He didn’t argue. Just let his faint smile linger as the song faded into static, the road ahead pulling them forward.

The fourth and final day of the Stardew Valley Fair carried a weight the first three hadn’t. Not the crowd—that had thinned to a lazy trickle—but her legs, a dull, steady ache that sat there like background noise. She’d been hauling produce and setting up Evelyn’s booth alone since day two. Same loop each morning: unpack the crates, line the vegetables just so, thumb the dust from squash until they caught the light. Evelyn had said she’d come if she felt better. She never did.

The fairgrounds still held onto the last scraps of enthusiasm, but it was stretched thin. Kettle corn and burnt coffee hung in the air, threaded with hay and the damp bite of trampled grass. Banners that once looked festive sagged now, edges curled by dew and sun.

Mollie’s booth was tucked between a table selling homemade candles and another stacked with jars of jam—both drawing more attention than hers. She’d arranged the bouquets the way Evelyn taught her, stems tied with rough twine, bursts of color meant to look effortless but carefully placed. Goldenrod, asters, wild grasses that caught the light if you squinted. No one was squinting. They were buying squash and tomatoes, their bags heavy with the kind of things that served a purpose. Her baked goods had sold out on day two.

And not a single bouquet had sold.

So on the last day, she sat there, bored.

Haley and Abigail had drifted by earlier with hot chocolate, steam curling, their laughter floating above the low hum. They asked her to come. She waved them off, tethered to the table. She told herself she didn’t mind. The truth tucked under her ribs, prickly: she hated being the one left behind. Hated being left out, hated having to be responsible. She wanted to sip the hot chocolate the girls drank, likely spiked with baileys, to get drunk midday and buy overpriced jams.

Her gaze slid over the thinning bodies of the fair, chin tucked into her jacket, fingers worrying the frayed seam at her sleeve. Late afternoon had settled in; the sun hung low and threw long, tired shadows. She watched the slow trade of crumpled bills for eggs, apples, small dusty things no one needed. She passed over a dark green jacket, then came back to it, focus tightening. Harvey stood at the booth across from her, talking with one of the older vendors. Relaxed posture. A polite smile that lived at the corners of his mouth. The nodding, the listening—his clinic face plastered on.

He caught her looking, must have felt her gaze. Recognition flashed—quick, clean. He lifted a hand in a small wave. Mollie’s brows drew together before she made herself return it, a brief lift of fingers from her sleeve. He said something to the vendor, a closing line, and turned toward her.

He crossed over with an easy stride, hand skimming the back of his neck as he stopped at her table. A quick look over his shoulder at the booth he’d left, and the practiced smile eased off, something like relief taking its place.

“Hey,” he said, hands in his pockets, breath showing in faint clouds.

“Hey,” she answered, the word catching slightly in her throat before it found its way out. She cleared it with a quick cough, pretending it was the cold.

“Thanks for saving me from that conversation,” he said, mouth tipping lopsided. “I owe you one.”

She arched an eyebrow and leaned into the table’s edge. “Happy to be your escape plan.”

He glanced over the table, his eyes lingering on the bouquets with an expression she couldn’t read. Probably thinking about how pathetic they looked, sitting there untouched like forgotten party favors.

“These look good,” he said at last, tipping his chin at the flowers.

Mollie leaned back in the chair. “You’re the first person to stop and say so.”

“I’m sure people will come by,” he said after a moment. Then, with a small tilt of his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he added, “Besides, I’ll bet some people are saving the best for last.”

She snorted. “Yeah, well, the ‘best’ are wilting.”

His smile deepened, eyes crinkling slightly with warmth. “Gives them character.”

Before she could come up with a snarky reply, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled bill and sliding it across the table. “I’ll take one.” He pointed to the bouquet with the faded red twine, wildflowers a little weathered at the edges.

Mollie hesitated a breath, then lifted it. Her fingers brushed the paper, the rough stems, then the back of his knuckles as she passed it over. The contact was nothing, a scrape of skin, but she cataloged the feeling in her mind anyway.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Figured the clinic could use something that doesn’t smell like disinfectant,” he said with a small shrug.

She huffed a laugh. “Well, lucky you. This one’s only mildly dead.”

“My favorite kind.”

They stood there for a beat, the conversation thinning into an easy quiet. Harvey’s gaze skimmed the sparse crowd and then went a little far-off, like his attention had slipped a step ahead of him. Mollie’s eyes dropped to the bouquet tucked under his arm and the book under the other—spine worn, corners softened by use. She recognized it; same one he’d had at the Saloon weeks ago.

Without thinking, she reached out and tapped the spine with a fingertip. “Still on the same book?”

Harvey looked down and back up, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. I’m a slow reader.”

“Or just dedicated.”

He shrugged, his thumb idly brushing the book’s spine. Something about it—the casualness of the gesture, the quiet simplicity—made her words slip out before she could second-guess them.

“Since you’re into WWII stuff, you might like some of my grandpa’s things. I’ve got old memorabilia, letters… that kind of thing. You could come by sometime and look through it.”

His brows lifted, the surprise there and gone before his face settled back into something more neutral. “Yeah,” he said after a beat, nodding. “That’d be cool.”

Mollie nodded too, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets to keep them still. She heard herself backpedal anyway. “Well, I mean—only if you want to. You don’t have to or anything.”

She winced at herself, small and private. Great sales pitch.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile—soft around the edges. “I figured.”

She let out a breath that landed somewhere between a laugh and an exhale. “Right. Yeah. Cool.”

“Cool,” he echoed, the word hanging a fraction longer than it needed to, like he was turning it over in his head.

He shifted, adjusting the bouquet. A quick glance down the row of booths, then back. “I should get going,” he said, thumb passing over the book’s spine again, not quite meeting her eyes. “But, uh—let me know if you need help packing up later.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, automatic.

“Alright. See you around.”

He turned and slid back into the slow drift of people, the dark green jacket easy to track until it wasn’t. Mollie stood a moment longer, looking at the space he’d left, hands deep in her pockets, fingers brushing against nothing.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Halloween

The town flickered in shades of orange and gold, lanterns carved with crooked smiles casting jittery light over cobblestone paths. The Spirit’s Eve festival had taken over the square, pulling Pelican Town’s usual gloom into something softer, warmer. Strings of lights looped from lamppost to lamppost, their glow competing with the dying embers of sunset.

Mollie adjusted the top hat on her head—a slightly battered thing with a stiff brim and a faded ribbon around the base. It wasn’t hers. Haley had dug it out of some forgotten closet, claiming she’d “had it forever”. Mollie tugged it down, fiddling with the angle until it felt less ridiculous. It tilted slightly over one eye, giving her a sharp, almost theatrical look. She caught her reflection in a nearby window and, for the first time all night, didn’t hate it. The hat worked. The whole outfit worked.

Haley tilted her head, arms crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Give me a twirl.”

Mollie sighed dramatically but spun anyway, the hem of her long, flowing black skirt flaring out around her boots. The layered scarves tied at her hips jangled softly with the movement, beads threaded through catching glints of light.

Haley gave a slow, satisfied nod. “Not bad.”

“I look like I should be reading palms in a tent somewhere.”

“Exactly,” Haley said. “Stevie Nicks would be proud.”

Abigail snorted, tugging at the sleeves of her witch costume—classic black dress, striped tights, and a pointy hat she apparently dusted off every year. Tradition, she’d claimed with a shrug. Mollie liked that about her. The commitment.

The three of them had gotten ready at Mollie’s, which was strange only because she’d never actually invited them over before. But the house—her reluctant little cabin—had started to feel different. Not home, not exactly. But homey . Like it wasn’t just a place she existed in, but one she’d started to stitch herself into, thread by reluctant thread.

Abigail unscrewed the cap of a small flask, offering it to Mollie with a grin. “For courage.”

Mollie took a swig, the fireball burning sweet and sharp on the way down, spreading warmth that settled in her chest. She coughed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Jesus.”

Haley rolled her eyes, adjusting the pleated mini-skirt of her Britney Spears costume. Hit Me Baby One More Time era, down to the pink fluffy scrunchies. She shivered but covered it quickly, reaching for the flask herself.

They made their way toward the town square, the uneven path crunching under their boots. The crowd thickened—kids darting between adults, their plastic pumpkin buckets swinging, tiny voices high with sugar and excitement. 

Abigail elbowed Mollie lightly. “You really should’ve done a couple’s costume with Sam.”

Mollie groaned, pulling her hat lower over her eyes.

Haley laughed, taking a sip from the flask. “C’mon, it would’ve been cute.”

“I wasn’t about to be salt to his pepper.”

They all cracked up, the laughter folding into the sounds of the festival—music playing from an old radio somewhere, kids squealing, the faint clink of glass bottles from a ring toss game nearby.

Just before Haley could respond, a voice cut in from their right.

“Good evening, ladies. Chocolate?”

Mollie turned her head, the grin already tugging at her lips. Harvey stood there, holding out a bowl of small chocolate bars, dressed as—of course—a doctor. White coat, stethoscope slung around his neck like he’d just walked straight from the clinic.

Mollie couldn’t help herself. “Real original, Dr. Harvey.”

He gave a sheepish smile, adjusting the stethoscope with exaggerated effort. “Figured I’d just go with what I know.”

Haley and Abigail each grabbed a piece of candy, Haley muttering something about him being very committed to the role. Mollie reached into the bowl, fingers brushing against the cool foil wrappers.

“It’s a classic, I suppose,” she added, her grin lingering.

Harvey’s eyes flicked over her costume, lingering in a way that wasn’t exactly subtle. His gaze tracked from the wide brim of her hat down to the curve of her waist, pausing just a second too long at the way the dress hugged her hips before snapping back up to meet her eyes. And it was weird—not weird like creepy, just… blatant. Like he wasn’t trying to hide the fact that he was checking her out. Mollie of course didn’t mind. In fact, she felt a jolt of satisfaction, sudden and sharp, warmth blooming under her skin. She was suddenly glad the dress fit the way it did, snug in all the right places, the soft fabric clinging just enough to catch his attention.

His brow quirked slightly, like maybe he realized she’d noticed—and maybe he didn’t care.

“Stevie Nicks, right?”

“Finally, someone gets it!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “You’re the first person who didn’t think I was some sort of witch.”

“Well,” Harvey said, his voice a little softer now, “you look great.” He cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly. “You all do. Look great, I mean.”

Abigail grinned, popping a piece of chocolate into her mouth. “Thanks, Dr. Harvey. And for the candy.”

“I should get back to it,” Harvey replied, glancing over his shoulder where a group of kids waited, their faces painted like skeletons and pumpkins. “Can’t let the kids down. You all have fun.”

“We will.” Abigail replied, a playful tone in her voice. “You’re doing a great job!”

“Yeah, keep up the good work, doc,” Haley added, tossing a playful wave as she dragged Abigail off to another booth.

Mollie gave Harvey a small smile as she stepped back to join the girls, her heart doing something stupid and unnecessary in her chest. She could still feel his eyes on her as she walked away, the weight of his gaze lingering.

They made it a few steps before Haley blurted out, her voice low but sharp with curiosity, “Does Dr. Harvey, like, want to fuck Mollie?”

Abigail doubled over laughing. Mollie rolled her eyes, heat creeping up her neck. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mollie and the girls were making their way through the festival when they spotted Sam and Sebastian leaning against the fence by the entrance to the cornfield maze. Sam was dressed as a scarecrow, the straw poking out of his flannel shirt and overalls, while Sebastian, in typical Sebastian fashion, hadn’t bothered with a costume at all. The girls went over to them, Haley talking animatedly about how dorky the haunted house was this year.

Mollie immediately noticed the tension between Abigail and Sebastian. Normally inseparable, today they stood apart, Abigail chatting with Haley while Sebastian seemed lost in his own world, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. There was something off, something she could sense just by the way they avoided looking at each other.

“Hey,” Sam greeted, his grin easy and lopsided. His scarecrow costume looked as uncomfortable as she’d expected, the straw poking out at odd angles, his hat crooked and threatening to fall off. She watched as he itched his neck, red blooming from where the straw rubbed.

“Nice look.”

Sam laughed. “Thanks, I hate it.”

Mollie watched the way Abigail’s gaze kept flickering toward Sebastian, who pretended not to notice, his arms crossed tight over his chest. The space between them felt crowded, even though no one was standing that close.

After a beat, Sam turned to Mollie, his grin softening. “Wanna do the maze with me?”

She nodded, happy to get away from the tension.

They broke away from the group, walking side by side toward the maze entrance, the laughter of the others fading behind them. The path twisted and turned, the walls of corn towering over them, the occasional flicker of lantern light casting long shadows.

“So,” Sam started, his tone casual but carrying an edge of frustration, “Seb and Abigail got into it earlier. He’s thinking of moving to the city for work.”

Mollie glanced over at him, the comment tugging her out of her own head. “Oh?”

“Yeah. It’s so dumb,” Sam went on, kicking at the dirt path as they navigated the narrow turns of the maze. “They’re both into each other. Everyone knows it. They should just, I don’t know—do something about it already.”

Mollie shrugged, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Maybe it’s just not meant to be.”

Sam frowned, stopping for a second before catching up to her pace. “What? No, that’s bullshit. They’re perfect for each other. It’s so obvious. They just need to stop being so damn scared about it.”

“Not everyone needs to fall in love, Sam,” Mollie replied, sharper than she meant. “Maybe Seb’s worried it’ll ruin their friendship. Not everything works out the way you think it should.”

Sam stopped walking altogether, grabbing her arm gently but firmly enough to make her pause too. “Are you talking about them or us?”

Mollie blinked, her jaw tightening. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Frustration flickered across his face. “I’ve respected your boundaries, haven’t I? But sometimes, Mollie… sometimes it feels like you’re leading me on.”

Her chest tightened, heat creeping up her neck. “I’ve been upfront with you.”

Sam let out a bitter laugh. “‘Not never, just not now.’ That’s what you said. Remember? Was that just something to keep me around?”

Mollie sighed, not wanting to have this conversation, not here, not now. “That was months ago, Sam.”

“That’s the thing, Mollie. It was months ago.” His voice was quieter now but no less sharp. “And nothing’s changed.”

“That’s not fair, Sam. I—”

He interrupted, shaking his head. “You’re just scared.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he bit out. “You’re scared. Scared of feeling anything real. Scared of letting someone in.”

Mollie’s jaw clenched, her pulse hammering in her ears. “I’m not scared, Sam. I just don’t want what you want.”

She watched as his face fell, the frustration giving way to disappointment. His shoulders slumped slightly, like the fight had drained out of him. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice low. “If that’s how you feel, then maybe I’m wasting my time.”

Before she could respond, Sam turned on his heel and stormed off, disappearing into the maze, his footsteps fading into the rustle of dry cornstalks. Mollie stood there, her chest tight with a mix of anger and guilt, her arms still crossed tightly over herself.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, pulling out the flask she’d stashed in her bag. She took a long swig, the burn of the alcohol doing little to soothe the knot in her chest. The taste was harsh, metallic, mixed with remnants of cheap whiskey that did nothing but sharpen the edge already sitting under her ribs.

She made her way back out of the maze eventually, squinting against the low sun that hovered just above the horizon, casting everything in that honey-drenched glow—golden hour. The fairgrounds buzzed around her, bathed in warm light, the colors of the festival stretched richer, deeper. Voices layered over each other like static, a cacophony of laughter and calls, too loud, too cheerful, grating against the frustration simmering beneath her skin.

At the maze’s entrance, Mollie stopped and scanned the crowd. No Sam. No Abigail. No Seb. No Haley. Just a sea of strangers and too many pumpkins. She pulled out her phone and called Abigail.

“Hey, where are you guys?” 

“We left to get more booze,” Abigail replied. Mollie could hear Haley giggling in the background. “Why, what’s up?”

Mollie rolled her eyes, staring out at the crowd. “Nothing,” she muttered, her jaw tight. “I’ll catch up later.”

She hung up before Abigail could respond, stuffing her phone back into her bag with more force than necessary. She pulled out the flask again, took a quick swig, the alcohol sharp and useless against the irritation knotting in her chest.

With no real direction, she wandered away from the maze, her boots kicking up dust and fallen leaves. The festival blurred behind her—families corralled around caramel apples and lukewarm cider, kids in cheap costumes darting between booths.

Eventually, she found a bench tucked away from the noise, half-hidden under an old maple tree whose leaves clung stubbornly to their branches, refusing to give in to the season. She dropped onto the worn wood with a sigh, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The sky was folding itself into layers of purple and orange, the kind of sunset that would’ve caught her attention on a better day. Now it felt like background scenery to the frustration buzzing just beneath her skin.

She stared out at the horizon, jaw clenched, willing herself to feel something less messy. 

Footsteps crunched over dry leaves behind her—steady, unhurried. She didn’t turn around, not until a familiar voice broke the quiet.

“Mollie?”

She glanced over her shoulder. Harvey stood a few feet away, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his stethoscope still lazily looped around his neck. The sunset glow caught in the lenses of his glasses, casting a faint reflection that masked his eyes for a second before he stepped closer.

“Dr. Harvey, always showing up at the right moment. You stalking me?”

His mouth twitched. “Only when you look like you could use some company.”

Without waiting for permission, he closed the distance and sank onto the bench beside her. To her surprise, he reached over and plucked the flask from her hand, taking a sip like it was the most natural thing in the world. His face scrunched slightly at the taste before he handed it back.

Mollie raised an eyebrow. “Hard day at work?”

“Something like that,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck before letting his hand drop back into his pocket. “Kids wear me out.”

“Here, here,” Mollie replied, lifting the flask in mock salute before taking another sip. The alcohol burned less this time, though she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. “Is that why you escaped all the way over here?”

He shrugged, the movement small, almost dismissive. “That, and I saw you sitting out here alone. Figured I’d come say hi.”

“Well… hi,” she muttered, her voice softer than she meant it to be. She looked away, back at the horizon, where the last slivers of daylight bled into the edges of the sky. The frustration crept in again, thin and sharp, but she didn’t lean into it. She just let it sit there, like background noise.

“You’re not great at hiding when something’s bothering you,” Harvey said after a beat, his voice low, cautious.

Mollie snorted softly, her fingers tightening around the flask. “Is it that obvious?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “A little.”

She stared down at the flask, twisting it in her hands, debating. There was something disarming about him—maybe it was the way he didn’t push, or how his presence didn’t demand anything from her. It made her feel safe, which was exactly why she couldn’t stand it.

“It’s just a bad night. Not worth getting into.”

“Fair enough.”

Silence settled between them while they both peered out at the sunset, a soundtrack of voices and carnival games behind them. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she took another sip of whiskey and screwed the cap back on. 

Mollie glanced at him, noticing how his glasses sat slightly crooked on his face. Without thinking, she reached over and gently nudged them back into place.

“You’re always so put together, but your glasses are perpetually off-kilter,” she teased, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of his frame.

Harvey blinked, a little startled by the gesture, then chuckled softly. “Didn’t even realize. Thanks.”

He leaned back, his shoulder barely brushing against hers, and looked out at the fading sunset. After a moment, he added, “You know, I’ve got some full-sized chocolate bars left in the clinic. If you’d like.”

Mollie arched an eyebrow. “Full-sized? Really? Thought those would’ve been the first to go.”

He shrugged, that faint smile still lingering. “I like to stash a few. Perks of the job.”

She laughed under her breath. “You know, I was always told not to accept candy from strangers.”

“Well,” he said, glancing sideways at her, “lucky for you, I think we’re well past being strangers.”

That pulled a real smile from her, a big, cheeky thing. “Alright, then. Lead the way.”

The fluorescent lights in the clinic hummed faintly, casting long shadows against the walls. Harvey rummaged through a cabinet, brow furrowed in concentration, as Mollie leaned against the doorway.

After a moment, he straightened, scratching the back of his neck. “Hmm. I think I left them upstairs in my place.”

The thought landed before she could stop it—an urge to see where he lived, to step into whatever space he kept for himself. “Mind if I come up with you?” The words were out before she could reel them back.

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. Then he gave a short nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

They headed up a narrow staircase tucked behind the clinic’s back hall, their footsteps echoing softly in the tight space. When Harvey unlocked the door, Mollie stepped inside, half-expecting something clinical and sterile. But it wasn’t.

It was… very Harvey.

Small, neat. Minimal furniture—just the essentials. A worn brown leather couch with a folded blanket draped over the back, a small coffee table stacked with a few books, an old record player in the corner. It smelled faintly of coffee and something cleaner, but not in an unpleasant way. More like fresh laundry and the faint trace of cedar.

She glanced toward the kitchenette—microwave, kettle, a single mug by the sink. “No stove?”

Harvey chuckled softly, setting his keys on the counter. “That’s why I’m at Gus’ so often. He makes better food than I ever could.”

Mollie smirked, imagining him awkwardly burning toast in that tiny kitchen. “Figures.”

Her gaze then drifted to a corner where a set of dusty records leaned against an old crate. She crouched down, running her fingers along the spines, the edges worn soft with age.

“You collect records?” she asked.

“They were my mother’s,” Harvey replied, his voice quieter now. “She loved music.”

Mollie paused, her thumb resting on a faded album cover. Noticed the way he referred to her in the past tense. “She had good taste.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just a small nod, his eyes distant for a beat longer than usual before he turned away to dig through a cabinet in the tiny kitchenette.

Mollie’s gaze shifted again, landing on an odd-looking radio setup tucked near the window, wires snaking out in tangled loops. Dials and switches lined its face, and beside it, a couple of model airplanes sat neatly in a row.

“What’s this?” she asked, stepping closer.

Harvey glanced over his shoulder, then rubbed the back of his neck again—a habit she was starting to notice. “A radio. I, uh, listen for aircraft sometimes. Rarely catch anything, but it’s… something I do.”

Mollie tilted her head, intrigued. “Didn’t peg you for the aviation type.”

“I used to want to be a pilot,” he admitted, crossing the room to stand beside her. His eyes stayed on the equipment, like it was easier than meeting her gaze. “Didn’t exactly pan out.”

“Why not?”

He gave a short laugh, tapped his glasses. “Bad eyesight. And a fear of heights.”

“Ahh. That’ll do it.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Didn’t stop me from liking the idea of it, though.”

She studied the equipment, then glanced at him. “Can I try?”

Harvey blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”

He pulled out a chair for her, kneeled down beside her, fiddled with a few knobs, then handed her the oversized headphones. Mollie slipped them on, the soft pads swallowing her ears, and was met with nothing but static—crackling, faint, like listening to dust in the air.

Harvey leaned in to adjust the dials, his arm brushing against hers. His warmth was immediate, subtle, like a low hum beneath her skin. She closed her eyes, tried to focus on the static, but it was impossible not to notice the way he smelled.

After a minute or two, he reached over and gently pulled the headphones off her head. “Mostly just static out here,” he murmured.

“It’s cool, though,” she said, her voice softer. “Unexpected.”

Harvey gave a short laugh under his breath, leaning back slightly. “My ex-wife thought it was a waste of time.”

The words seemed to slip out before he could stop them. His face changed almost instantly, tightening just around the eyes, like he wanted to reel them back in. Mollie blinked, caught off guard.

“Ex-wife?”

His eyes flickered to the floor. “Yeah. We were married for a couple of years. Back when I lived in the city.”

She didn’t know why it surprised her so much. Maybe because she couldn’t picture Harvey with anyone else—couldn’t imagine him sharing the quiet parts of himself with someone long enough to call them his wife.

“What happened?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Harvey’s hesitation was brief, but it was there—a subtle shift in the air between them. He gave a small, tight smile, not quite reaching his eyes. “Didn’t work out.”

Simple. Final. His voice had that clipped edge now, like the words were hitting something sharp on the way out.

Mollie felt the shift, felt the door quietly click shut even though he was still kneeling right there. She could’ve pushed, but something about the way his jaw tensed told her not to. So she didn’t.

Instead, she nodded, and let the silence stretch just long enough to smooth over the edges.

“Well,” she added, leaning back in the chair, “for what it’s worth, I think it’s cool. The radio thing, I mean. Unexpected’s not a bad thing.”

Their eyes met, and another shift in energy happened. She was still perched on a chair and he was still kneeled beside her, still somehow towering over her, looking down into her eyes. He looked very serious in that moment, but also undone. Mollie just looked back, into his eyes and occasionally down to his lips, a small smile on her own. In her head, she was begging for him to close the space. To take this moment for what it was. And she wondered if he felt it–felt her silent want, her desire. He looked down at her lips, a quick glance. 

But then Harvey stood abruptly, clearing his throat like the air had gotten too thick. “I, uh… should grab that chocolate.”

Mollie watched him cross the small space, his movements efficient, focused—like if he kept moving, he wouldn’t have to sit with whatever had been hanging between them. He pulled open a drawer, rummaged around, and came back with a couple of full-sized chocolate bars, handing a few to her without meeting her eyes.

“Thanks,” Mollie said, unwrapping one, the foil crinkling in the quiet. She took a bite, the chocolate sweet and cheap in a comforting way. “Probably the best thing I’ve had all night.”

Harvey gave a soft laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m glad.”

A buzz from her bag cut through the space between them. Mollie dug out her phone—a text from Abigail: We’re at Sam’s. Where the hell are you? Mollie sighed, stuffing the phone back without replying.

“I should head out,” she said, tucking the other chocolate bars into her bag. “But… thanks. For the chocolate. And, you know—everything else.” She nodded vaguely toward the radio, unsure how to wrap it all up neatly.

“Anytime.” Harvey’s smile was small, polite, but softer than it had been earlier. He moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “I’ll walk you down.”

They descended the narrow stairs in silence, their footsteps a quiet echo in the emptiness of the clinic after hours. At the door, Mollie turned to face him, her fingers fiddling with the edge of her shawl.

“Thanks again,” she said, her voice low but steady. “You kind of turned a bad night around.”

Harvey’s mouth twitched into something like a smile, his eyes catching hers briefly before sliding away. “I’m glad. It was… nice seeing you.”

She hesitated at the door, not quite ready to leave, even though there was nothing left to say. “I’ll see you around, then.”

But he didn’t nod right away. Instead, he shifted like he was standing on something uneven, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. “Actually… what are you doing tomorrow?”

Mollie paused, fingers still wrapped around the doorframe. “Uhh, nothing really. Why?”

“I thought—if you’re up for it—I’d take a look at the stuff from your grandpa. The war memorabilia. If that’s okay.”

Elation flowed through Mollie’s body. Perhaps the walls weren’t completely up just yet. He was giving her an opening. “Yeah,” she said. “That’d be cool. Around six at my place?”

“Sure. Cool,” Harvey echoed, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’ll see you then.”

She nodded, stepping out into the crisp night air, the door clicking softly behind her. The half eaten chocolate bar was warm in her hand, her fingers cold in the evening breeze. As she walked away, she let herself smile wide.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: The Pull Of You

The beach stretched wide before him, endless and quiet.

Not a real beach, not exactly—something built from half-memories and mismatched details his mind had stitched together. The tide rolled in slow and steady, water pooling at his feet before slipping away, pulling the sand out from under his heels. The air smelled like rain.

He had been there before.

He was always here.

And there was that girl, in the distance.

Far enough that her face was never clear, a blurred figure against the horizon, edges smudged like charcoal.

But tonight—

Tonight, she wasn’t hazy.

Sharp features. High cheekbones. A slightly upturned nose. A full mouth curled into something not quite a smile. Eyes that caught the light when she turned to him, shifting like sea glass —blue, green, both.

The realization struck hard, sharp as the sudden gust that pulled at his sleeves. The waves were rougher now, reaching farther with each pass, and she stood too deep in them—water swirling around her waist, dragging at the hem of her skirt. She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she didn’t care.

Something in his chest tightened, an instinctive flare of worry. He stepped forward before he’d even made the decision to move. The water hit his calves, cold enough to sting.

“Mollie!” he tried to call, but the wind caught his voice and flung it out to sea.

She didn’t move. Just watched him. Waiting. Smiling.

The tide surged higher, pulling at him with invisible hands, but he kept going—

And then—

Harvey woke with a sharp inhale, heart thudding against his ribs.

Darkness pressed in. The faint hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound around him. His sheets were twisted, damp with sweat, knotted under his fists. He dragged a hand down his face, pushing back hair still damp at the temples, the ghost of a headache tightening behind his eyes.

The dream was already fraying at the edges—the sound of the wind fading, the pull of the tide gone—but her eyes stayed.

It was ridiculous—he’d had this dream for months, since before he’d even really known her. But now, somehow, she’d stepped into it. Uninvited. 

And now, even asleep, he was wading in after her.

“Damn it,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Harvey sat there a while, staring at the dim light crawling through the blinds. It was cold outside, the kind of morning that usually had him lacing up his running shoes, but he didn’t feel like moving. No patients today unless he got called in. Nothing to do but think, which was a dangerous thing lately.

He showered, dressed, and ended up at the saloon before he could talk himself out of it.

The saloon was half-asleep when Harvey stepped in, the air thick with the smell of coffee. Outside, the morning was sharp enough to sting his nose, but in here it was warm in that slow, sinking way that made you want to stay longer than you meant to.

Gus looked up from behind the counter, his expression breaking into that steady, familiar warmth Harvey never quite knew what to do with. Sure, saloon owners were supposed to be friendly, but Gus had a way of making you feel claimed by the place—like your presence wasn’t just noticed but expected. Needed, even.

“Been a while,” Gus said from behind the counter, his voice as steady as ever. He was already reaching for the pot, pouring before Harvey could answer.

Harvey slid onto a stool, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Flu season. Weather change. The clinic’s been full.” 

Gus grinned knowingly. “This time of year always brings them in.”

The first sip of coffee cut through the heaviness in Harvey’s head. He ordered the house special breakfast, and Gus dropped a folded newspaper beside the mug. “On the house,” he said, a wink quick as a flicker before disappearing into the kitchen.

Harvey set the coffee down, fingers curling around the paper. Before opening it, his gaze drifted to the corner booth. Pam sat slouched in the shadows, sunglasses on though the sun barely reached this far inside. Both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, knuckles pale against the ceramic. Even from here, he could smell the leftover alcohol—that particular sourness that clung to the skin no matter how much soap you used.

He knew that smell. Knew the way it layered over people like a second skin.

Knew it didn’t come off until they wanted it gone.

And there it was again—Mollie, folded into memory. Sitting outside beside the Saloon, arms wrapped tight around herself, breath ragged. Telling him Pam reminded her of someone else. He’d wanted to ask who, but he wasn’t supposed to want to know. She was a patient. Concern was fine. Curiosity wasn’t.

His hand tightened on the paper. He forced it loose, flipping a page—and then the universe seemed to smirk at him.

There she was again. The market. Standing behind her booth, flowers organized in rows, vegetables piled in small wooden crates. She wasn’t smiling so much as tolerating the camera, lips curved in something caught between embarrassment and politeness. Her gaze tilted just off-center, as if the lens was too much to meet directly.

Harvey stared for a beat too long, the absurdity of it building like a pressure behind his eyes. He could almost laugh at how relentless it was—the world tossing her into his path like some inside joke he wasn’t in on.

He snapped the paper shut. Set it aside. Pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and let out a breath that might’ve been a groan, might’ve been a laugh. 

When Gus came back with breakfast, Harvey sat up, schooling his face.

“You make it to the market?” Gus asked, sliding the plate across.

“Yeah,” Harvey said. “Picked up some coffee beans from your brother.”

The smile on Gus’s face faltered just enough to notice. “Haven’t seen him in a while. How’s he doing?”

“Good,” Harvey replied, keeping it neat. He knew enough about the fight over their parents’ land to recognize the shadow behind Gus’s eyes. And he knew better than to prod at old wounds, and Gus didn’t need him poking at this one.

They talked a little longer before the bell over the door pulled Gus away. Harvey ate in quiet, the echo of that photograph and his dream still hovering like static in the back of his mind.

Upstairs, the apartment felt smaller on days off. No footsteps on the clinic floor below, no phone ringing through the walls. Just the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old building settling around him.

He sat at the desk for a while, shuffling through paperwork he’d already gone over twice. Promised Maru he’d leave it for her, but he couldn’t help himself. Numbers balanced, prescriptions double-checked—nothing left to fix.

The armchair was no better. Opened a book, closed it again. Poured coffee he didn’t want.

Days off had always felt wrong. Without a schedule, he drifted. No patients meant no one needed him, and if no one needed him… he wasn’t sure he’d bother showing up for himself at all.

Before Pelican Town, it hadn’t been like this. When he was married, there had always been someone to orbit around. Jane would never admit she needed him, but she did—in the endless, grinding logistics of life. On his days off, he’d be folding laundry, running errands, balancing the budget to the cent, paying down credit cards she barely glanced at. And in the lonelier hours, when she took extra shifts and the apartment felt too quiet, he’d find himself wishing they’d buy a house just for the yard—so there’d be grass to mow, gutters to fix, something to keep his hands busy.

Now there was no one. Just him. And there were days like this when the idea of being responsible for himself felt more like a dare than a duty.

Eventually, he sat by the window with headphones on, static from the shortwave radio filling the room. No pilots all afternoon. He let his eyes close, letting the noise press into the quiet.

Eventually, it wasn’t static he heard.

It was her voice yesterday in his apartment, half-laughing at something he’d said. Mollie at this very desk last night, eyes closed under the weight of his headphones. Close enough that he’d caught the faint floral scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin bleeding into the space between them. Her breathing had been steady, pulling his gaze to the rise and fall of her chest.

From there, it was impossible not to trace her face—the small furrow between her brows, the sharp slope of her nose, the fan of her lashes, the curve of her mouth. A stray eyelash on her cheek, dark against pale skin. God, he’d wanted to touch it. To touch her. Slide his palm to the back of her neck and pull her in.

He’d thought about it since. Too often. Enough that now, sitting here with the static in his ears, his cock stirred—thickening with a slow, unwelcome persistence that had him shifting in his chair like he could hide it from himself. He couldn’t. The harder he tried to think about something else, the worse it got.

At least he’d been the one to ruin the moment—pulling the headphones off, muttering about the static just to get her out before he did something irreversible. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he’d opened his mouth and handed her a piece of himself he’d kept locked away for years. Mentioned Jane. Just like that. No reason. No way to take it back.

He loathed himself for it. He’d spent years keeping that part of his life sealed behind polite distance, and she’d cracked it open without even trying.

At first, he’d told himself his pull toward her was because she went out of her way to connect with him. Always speaking to him, asking questions about himself. But that wasn’t right—plenty of people in town did that, and he shut them down without thinking. So why her?

She was beautiful, yes. But so were plenty of women in Pelican Town. That wasn’t it.

Maybe it was the way she didn’t treat him like the town doctor. She treated him like a man. Not a role. Not a set of obligations. That had thrown him, and he hadn’t quite recovered.

And then there was the scarcity of her. The flashes of warmth or interest he’d catch—quick enough to make him think he’d imagined them—gone before he could get a proper hold. The biting humor. The edge. The way she could look at him and make him feel as if she were pulling him apart just to see how he worked.

The more he thought about it, the less he understood.

All he knew was that he felt something. And it was driving him mad.

He adjusted himself in his pants, irritated, and pushed a hand over his face. But the thoughts rearranged—Halloween night becoming the market, the market becoming that photo in the paper, the photo becoming tonight.

What the hell had possessed him to invite himself over?

He glanced at the clock. Four. Two hours until he’d be in her space. Close quarters. No excuse to leave except walking out, and he wasn’t the type to walk out.

He paced once, sat back down. Tried the book again. Tried the static. This time his own pulse was louder.

If she noticed him looking too long tonight, what would he say? If she didn’t notice at all, would that be better or worse?

The thought of her moving around him in that small space had his chest tightening—not just with want, but with the sharp edge of knowing exactly how stupid this was.

He leaned back, stared at the ceiling.

What the hell was he thinking?

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Exquisite Tension

Mollie stood in the kitchen, staring into the oven like it might blink first.

The roast chicken sat there, smug and golden, its skin blistering in small, perfect patches, ringed by carrots and potatoes steeped in a shallow bath of olive oil and rosemary. The cabin smelled like she had her life in order—garlic blooming in the heat, thyme gone fragrant, a faint bite of wine simmered down to sweetness—but her stomach felt wrung out and left to dry.

It is NOT a date.

She repeated this like a mantra, wiping her hands on the dish towel even though they were bone dry. She couldn’t pinpoint when she’d started caring this much. One minute she’d been at Marnie’s, picking out a chicken, and the next she was in front of her laptop, searching: how to impress someone without looking like you’re trying to impress them .

Just dinner. Just Harvey, essentially a stranger, coming over to look at war memorabilia. Not to do… whatever this was.

But then she looked at the counter, at the two plates she’d set out, side by side. The wine glasses. The candle she hadn’t lit—yet—because that would definitely make it a date. She’d arranged the roasted vegetables like they weren’t just roasted vegetables, like they were supposed to say something about her. I’m casual but put-together, maybe. Or, Look at me, being a whole functioning adult with thyme and rosemary sprigs and everything.

She glanced at the clock—5:47 PM. Shit.

She took up her wine glass, the cheap red leaving thin legs down the inside as she drank. Once, twice—enough to feel it in her chest. Setting it down came harder than she meant; the faint clink of glass on counter landed sharp in the quiet.

At the window over the sink, her reflection looked back: hair down, slightly mussed in a way she wanted to pass off as careless, though it had taken effort. Light makeup—not too much, not too little. The kind that suggested she wasn’t trying. Which was a lie.

Her favorite navy sweater slipped from one shoulder in that oh, this? way that had cost her three outfit changes. She had on the jeans Haley once claimed made her ass look “criminally good.” That thought almost made her smile. Almost.

It’s not a date.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, untucked it again. Checked the oven, though the timer still had eight minutes to go.

She hadn’t told Harvey she was cooking. He probably thought this was going to be dusty boxes, coffee, and a quick goodbye. She hadn’t planned to cook either, but then the idea had crept in like an impulse she couldn’t shake. And now here she was: roast chicken, wine glasses, and the creeping knowledge that this maybe-definitely felt like a date.

And what was she expecting to happen? That Harvey would see the table, see her, and say fuck it ? That he’d bend her over the kitchen island and forget the chicken entirely? If anything did happen, she knew she’d just as quickly send him home. 

He struck her as the type who’d take the out without a second thought.

Still, there was something about him that had been slipping into her dreams lately. Dirty dreams, indecent dreams. The kind where she was in the clinic, legs in stirrups, and his head was between her thighs. The kind that made her wake up flushed and needy.

Which was exactly why she needed to get this over with before she drove herself insane.

She chewed on her bottom lip, glancing back at the oven. The chicken didn’t offer any advice. Just sat there, golden and perfect, mocking her.

5:53 PM.

She poured another glass of wine—not because she needed it, but because she absolutely needed it. The first sip burned the way cheap wine always did, but it sank into her chest like a temporary anchor.

She paced.

Maybe she’d cancel. Send something casual— Hey, the cabin caught fire, rain check? Or claim she’d come down with something. But he was a doctor, which made that impossible. He’d just show up anyway, see she wasn’t sick, and diagnose her with cowardice.

5:55 PM.

Her heart thudded, heavy and uneven. The cabin seemed to have shrunk in the last few minutes, every wall leaning in, the air too still, too close.

The timer on the oven shrieked. She yanked the door open and a wave of heat rushed her, fogging the window above the sink. The chicken was perfect—of course it was. Stupid, smug chicken.

She’d just pulled it out when the knock came.

Mollie froze, hands still wrapped around the baking tray, pulse tripping over itself. She set it down, wiped her palms against the towel again, and breathed in.

Harvey was… complicated. Some days, he made it obvious he’d rather be anywhere but near her, closing himself off with a tilt of his shoulder or a polite excuse. That should’ve been enough to cure her of the whole thing. Instead, it worked the opposite way.There was something in the chase—some edge to the way he kept himself at arm’s length—that made her lean in, just to see if she could make him lean back.

Not that it mattered. This wasn’t a date. It was just dinner.

She opened the door.

There he was, standing there, in a gray sweater and dark jeans, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand like it was an afterthought. His hair was extra floppy tonight—an unintentional kind of messy that looked like he’d run his fingers through it too many times on the walk over.

“Hey,” he said, holding up the bottle. “Brought wine. Hope you like it.”

Mollie stepped aside to let him in. “I love wine. But you didn’t have to bring anything.”

“Figured I should. A thank-you for letting me rifle through your family’s history.” His eyes flicked over the room as he stepped inside.

The cabin had done its best to look casual, but the faint smell of garlic and rosemary gave her away. His gaze lingered on the kitchen—the island, the two plates already set, wine glasses waiting like accomplices.

“I didn’t realize you were making dinner,” he said, eyebrows lifting. “Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” she said, moving toward the stove and pretending she wasn’t hyper-aware of him existing in her space. “Figured after seeing your place—no offense—you could use a home-cooked meal.”

That drew a laugh from him, low and warm, and god, it sent a jolt down her spine. “None taken. You’re not wrong.”

Something eased—like someone had cracked a window to let in cold air. He leaned against the counter while she dished them up, talking about flu season, the way the clinic filled up like clockwork this time of year. His voice carried over the quiet clink of plates and the oven’s low hum as it cooled.

They took their seats at the small island. Mollie had never owned a dining table—never saw the point—but as Harvey settled in, she realized the countertop was too low for his height, his knees bumping awkwardly against the underside. They exchanged a glance, both smirking, the kind of shared joke that didn’t need words.

“Not exactly fine dining,” she said, her knee brushing his under the counter. She didn’t move it.

He only smiled, lifting his glass, turning it between his fingers. “It’s perfect.”

The first few bites passed in a silence that wasn’t empty, exactly—more like a hum beneath the surface, both of them pretending not to notice how close they were. 

“This is really good,” he said eventually, fork pausing mid-air like the thought surprised him.

Heat crept up Mollie’s neck. She gave a small shrug, trying to keep her voice even. “It’s just chicken.”

“Some of the best chicken I’ve had.”

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth betrayed her, tugging toward a smile. “Don’t oversell it.”

He laughed, taking another bite. “How’d you learn to cook like this?”

She paused, chewing, considering. “My dad taught me. I was young, but it stuck.”

There was a beat of quiet after that.

“You mentioned once—at the clinic,” he said after a beat, his tone careful, as if he could see the cracks in the ice he was stepping onto. “When you came in for that check-up on your stitches. You said your dad wasn’t exactly… around.”

Mollie’s fork paused mid-air, hovering over her plate. Stared at the roasted carrots, suddenly less interested in their sweet, earthy flavor. She set the fork down and reached for her glass instead.

“No. Not exactly.” She took a small sip before adding, “He left when I was eight.”

The words came out flat, like reading off a grocery list, but her grip on the glass betrayed her. The shotgun flashed in her mind—metal worn from years of use, heavy and wrong in his hand. The spray on the wall. She cleared her throat hard, as if the sound alone could scrape the image away, and stared at the wine catching light at the bottom of her glass. “He actually died in February,” she said, quieter.

Harvey’s gaze shifted, his fingers stilling against his glass. His expression softened—not with pity, but with something quieter, something steadier.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

She shrugged, offering a tight, practiced smile. “It’s fine. I don’t really talk about it. But cooking always makes me think of him.”

She looked down at her plate. The half-finished chicken felt heavier now, the air thicker.

Harvey didn’t reach for a platitude. He nodded once, expression unreadable before it softened again.

“Well,” he said, a faint pull at the corner of his mouth, “I’m glad it stayed with you. This is incredible. Gus might have competition.”

A short laugh escaped her. “I doubt that. I’ll leave the professional cooking to him.”

The living room had gone soft around the edges, the glow from the single lamp casting everything in a kind of quiet, amber haze. Dinner was a memory now, the plates stacked in the sink, the war memorabilia spread between them untouched, buried under the weight of conversation and half-empty wine glasses.

Mollie stood, steady enough but aware of the slight lag in her movements from the wine, and padded to the kitchen. The bottle Harvey had brought waited on the counter. The cork eased out with a dull pop, and she tipped more into their glasses before curling back into her spot on the couch, knees drawn under her. She handed him his.

“Alright,” she said, the stem of her own glass balanced between her fingers. “I’ve shown you all my family’s dusty shit. Seems fair you owe me something personal in return.”

He arched a brow. “Oh? That’s how this works?

“Absolutely.” She leaned into the cushions, the faintest tilt of a smile. “Consider it payment.”

He gave a low chuckle, took a slow sip, the rim of the glass brushing his mouth before he lowered it again. “Alright. What do you want to know?”

“Life in the city. I know you worked there, but that’s about it.” A beat passed before she added, voice light but edged, “And the ex-wife thing. Care to elaborate?”

Harvey stilled for a second, his jaw tightening—not much, just enough to catch if you were looking. Mollie was looking.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat like he had to clear the path for the words. “Sure.”

He leaned back, head tipping against the cushion, eyes on the ceiling as if the story was printed there. “Worked at a hospital in the city. Big place. Busy. The kind of job that makes you forget what day it is.” A faint, humorless huff. “Thought that’s what I wanted—something important, fast-paced. Turns out I’m not really built for it.”

She stayed quiet, let him find his way through it.

“My ex-wife was a surgeon,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now. “We met during residency. Long nights. A lot of coffee. Not enough sleep. I think we mistook exhaustion for chemistry.”

His mouth twitched at that—something like a smile, but not really.

“For a while, it worked. We were both too busy to notice how different we were. She liked the rush. The adrenaline. But I wanted something quieter. Something that felt like it mattered in a different way.”

He rolled the stem of his glass once between his fingers, then set it down on the table. His hands stayed restless, lacing together, pulling apart. “She didn’t see family medicine as important. Thought it was settling. Like I’d walked away from something bigger.”

His voice thinned. “At first, I told myself it didn’t matter. But it did.”

A pause stretched out, and then—flat, quick, like he wanted it over—“She left.” No qualifiers. No details. “I took a leave of absence after that. Found the position here.”

The room felt still after that, thick with everything he’d just said. He glanced over at her, his expression softening a little, like he’d just remembered she was there.

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Didn’t mean to—” he waved his hand vaguely, like the words had gotten away from him. “Unload.”

Mollie shook her head. “Don’t apologize. I asked.”

He looked away, his hand at the back of his neck, thumb pressing into the muscle like he needed something to do with it. The gesture wasn’t defensive so much as uneasy, the kind of fidget people had when they were suddenly aware of how much they’d let slip.

“For what it’s worth,” she said after a beat, “I think you made the right call. There’s nothing small about wanting something quieter.”

Harvey let out a breath, something easing in his shoulders. "Thanks."

His gaze drifted to the pile of memorabilia again, but he left it untouched, his hands flattening against his knees as if to keep them steady.

Mollie broke it. "I have to say, though… for someone who wanted a quiet life, you sure picked a town with a lot of weirdos."

A corner of his mouth tugged upward. "Yeah, I suppose I did. But they’ve grown on me. And some of the people," His eyes flicked to hers, catching, "aren’t so bad."

It was nothing, really—just a simple shift in tone—but it felt like something, and that was enough to keep her leaning forward instead of away.

They let the conversation wander, looping through music in the lazy, unhurried way the wine seemed to encourage. They’d talked about his love of jazz—about his battered collection of records, most of them old and worn, the kind that crackled before the first note hit. He spoke with more ease, his voice loosening in the small hours, describing certain records like they were old friends. It wasn’t about listing names or dates; it was the way he seemed to inhabit the memory of each one. And Mollie found herself caught up in the warmth of it.

“I don’t know much about jazz,” Mollie admitted, tilting the last of her wine in her mouth. “But I do remember the first time I saw you at the Saloon. You put some jazz song on the jukebox and just sat down without saying a word. I thought you were so—” her mouth tugged—“mysterious.”

Harvey barked out a laugh—not his usual soft chuckle, but something real, sharp around the edges. “Mysterious? Me?” He shook his head. “I think you’re giving me way too much credit. I’m much more awkward than mysterious.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Mollie grinned, leaning her elbow on the back of the couch. “You’ve got that quiet, brooding thing going on. Makes people curious.”

The faintest color touched his cheeks, though he masked it with a shrug, gaze dipping back to his glass. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t be mysterious to you anymore. You probably know more about me than anyone else in Pelican Town.”

“I remember that night,” Harvey said, still not looking at her. “You were sitting in a booth, drenched from the storm.”

“Oh god,” Mollie groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “I probably looked ridiculous.”

Warm fingers wrapped around her wrist, tugging her hand away.

"Ridiculous? No. Just… wet,” he said, and that crooked grin surfaced again. “But not ridiculous.”

Mollie snorted, though her heart had kicked up a notch. His hand didn’t leave her wrist. The pad of his thumb brushed the inside of it—light enough to pass as nothing, deliberate enough to be everything. 

“Yeah, okay,” she murmured, keeping her tone just playful enough to keep the air from tipping over. “I was soaked, and you were a mysterious stranger, ignoring me.”

He looked up at her now, eyes narrowing slightly in a smile. “I saw you,” he said, quiet but certain. “I just didn’t know what to say. I’m not great at… approaching people.”

“You’re doing just fine now.”

His gaze flicked to her mouth—brief, almost deniable—before finding her eyes again. “Guess that’s what a bottle and a half of wine does,” he said, voice low.

Their hands rested between them, his fingers still curled loosely around her wrist, as if letting go hadn’t crossed his mind. Her pulse beat against his skin. Everything else felt off-balance in a way that made her want to melt into it.

He glanced down at their hands, then back to her face—slower this time. The air between them thinned, as though one deep breath might close it completely.

Mollie swallowed, the wine doing nothing for the dry catch in her throat. She didn’t move. Neither did he. But it was the kind of stillness that was already moving, quietly, inevitably, toward something neither of them seemed willing to stop.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Lover's Spit

The room had gone quiet, though the faint hum of music still threaded through the air, distant and irrelevant. Harvey’s glass sat forgotten on the coffee table, the wine inside reduced to a thin, crimson ring. His pulse, on the other hand, was anything but forgotten—loud and insistent, drumming against his ribs, a rhythm impossible to ignore.

Mollie was close. Too close.

Her wrist in his hand, fingers light, maybe thoughtless. But the warmth of her skin seeped into his, the slow brush of his thumb against the edge of her wrist setting his nerves alight. He should move. Should let go. Should put space between them before the line between want and mistake blurred beyond recognition.

Let go.

The thought crackled through his mind like static, but his body betrayed him. He stayed still. He knew why he was touching her hand, why he hadn’t let go—it was because he wanted to, because he’d wanted to for far too long. 

For an inappropriately long time.

She was looking at him now, really looking, her wine-flushed face soft in the low light. Her gaze flickered to his mouth, just for a second, so quick he might’ve imagined it. But he hadn’t. He knew that look. He’d seen it a handful of times in other rooms, on other women. He had never let it mean anything.

Now, it did.

His throat tightened. He cleared it, tried to pull himself back from the edge of whatever this was. He could stand, could say something easy and stupid, make an excuse about the time. But the moment her eyes met his again, open and unguarded, it was over.

Fuck it.

He leaned in before he could stop himself, moving slow, hesitant, like if he did it carefully enough, it wouldn’t count. Like it wouldn’t be real.

But it was.

Her breath caught, a soft sound against his lips, and then she was kissing him back—tentative at first, then stronger, pulling him under like a rip current. Months of restraint, of neat, sterile logic, burned away under the heat of her mouth, the way she melted into him like she’d been waiting, like she’d known he would cave eventually.

His hand found her cheek, thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw, and deepened the kiss, teeth grazing, tongues meeting in a slow, measured rhythm.

She moved against him, hands sliding up his arms, fingers curling over his shoulders. And then she was shifting—swinging a leg over, straddling him like she’d done it a hundred times before, knees pressing into the couch on either side of his thighs.

Jesus.

The weight of her, the heat of her body against his, sent something low and electric through him. His hands moved to her hips without thought, fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater, pulling her closer.

Too much. Not enough.

She kissed him like she was trying to learn him by touch alone, her fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to pull a sound from him that he barely recognized. When she rolled her hips against him, slow, teasing, he swore he could see stars.

He was hard. She had to feel it, the way she was pressed against him, the friction dizzying, almost unbearable. His hands slid higher, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of her sweater, tracing the warm skin at her waist. She shivered, moaned soft against his mouth, and something in his chest cracked wide open.

“Harvey.” His name was barely a breath, warm against his lips.

It was like flipping a switch.

His body locked up, the haze of wine and want evaporating so fast it left him dizzy.

Stop.

The word crashed through him, louder than her voice, louder than the blood roaring in his ears. He pulled back abruptly, his hands landing on her hips—not to pull her closer, but to push her away. The space between them stretched wide in an instant, colder than the air outside.

Mollie blinked, dazed, lips still parted, her breath uneven. She scrambled back, off his lap, her knees bumping against his as she shifted. Her expression flickered from confusion to something sharper—hurt, maybe, but she hid it fast.

“I—” she started, her voice rough. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

“Don’t.” The word came out too sharp, cutting clean through whatever she’d been about to say. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly as he stood, pacing like if he kept moving, he wouldn’t have to sit with the weight of what just happened.

He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t bear the way she was watching him—wide-eyed, waiting for an explanation he didn’t have.

“It’s not you,” he said finally, voice low, strained. “It’s—”

It’s what?

The thought tangled in his throat, knotted so tight he couldn’t pull it free. Too many reasons, none of them simple.

She was his patient. She was younger. She was—God—Mollie.

And Sam. He’d seen them, the way they moved around each other, something easy, unspoken. Wasn’t there something there? It wasn’t his business. Hadn’t been his business. But now it was. Now he’d made it his business, crossing a line he’d drawn so clearly in his mind until tonight, until her.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered, almost to himself, like saying it out loud would make it real.

Mollie sat up straight, her face shifting from confusion to something guarded, her arms crossing over her chest like armor. “Can’t do what?”

Harvey shook his head. Swallowed down the words he couldn’t untangle. This. The closeness. The feelings. The goddamn hope that had crept in somewhere along the way, quiet and unnoticed until now.

“I need to go,” he said, his voice flat. Final.

“Right,” she muttered. “Of course.”

He grabbed his coat from the arm of the couch, his fingers fumbling with the sleeves. He didn’t look at her—not once—as he bolted for the door, the click of it closing behind him louder than anything they’d said.

Outside, the cold hit him like a slap, sharp and bracing. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his footsteps heavy against the dirt path as he walked fast, like he could outrun the mess he’d made.

What the hell were you thinking?

The words echoed with every step.

He wasn’t. That was the problem.

Jesus Christ, you idiot. What did you think was going to happen?

She was too young. Too unraveled. A little reckless, a little untethered, the kind of woman who had left him before—because he was too careful, too dull. Because he was never enough. Not exciting enough, not ambitious enough. Just not enough.

And here he was again, standing at the edge of the same cliff, too close to falling.

His pace quickened, breath fogging in the cold. He’d thought he was done with this kind of thing. Thought he’d built walls high enough to keep it out.

Clearly, not high enough.

The keys slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground with a sharp clink against the stone step.

Harvey exhaled hard through his nose, his breath fogging in the cold night air. He stared down at the fallen keys, his jaw tight, before tilting his head back, eyes closing like he could find some kind of divine intervention in the empty stretch of sky above him.

Her face burned against the backs of his eyelids, a ghost he couldn’t shake. The shape of her, the heat of her, the way she had fit against him like she had always belonged there. His name, tangled in a breath. Her fingers in his hair, her hips pressing down in slow, measured insistence—

Jesus Christ.

His pulse lurched, his body still traitorous, still strung tight from it.

With a sharp inhale, he bent down and picked up the keys, forcing his hand steady as he jammed the right one into the lock. The door groaned as it swung open, the clinic swallowing him into its silence.

The only light came from the streetlamps filtering through the windows, cutting pale, uneven shapes across the floor. Everything smelled the same—sanitized, sharp, familiar—but the air felt different somehow. He let the door shut behind him and dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling, wishing he could release the last hour with it.

It was a mistake. His mistake.

Not hers.

He had gone to her house. Sat in her kitchen. Ate her food, drank her wine, let himself slip into something dangerously close to comfort. He had listened when she spoke, let himself open up like it wasn’t a terrible idea, like he wasn’t setting the stage for exactly what had happened.

What the hell had he thought was going to happen?

He had given her every reason to believe this was something she could reach for. Every stupid glance, every lingering moment, every fucking touch. And she had.

And he had let her.

Harvey swallowed hard, his throat tight, and turned toward the stairs. 

He sank into the armchair, the leather cold against his skin. He exhaled sharply, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, his head in his hands.

His apartment was still, the quiet pressing in from all sides. It should have been comforting—the familiar hum of the heater, the muted tick of the clock on the wall—but tonight, it felt suffocating.

He had lived alone for so long. Had built his life around solitude, around routine, around the careful avoidance of anything that could unravel him.

And then there was her.

He let out a breath, slow, measured, but it did nothing to steady him.

He tried—God, he tried—to convince himself she was like his ex-wife. That she was too untethered, too free-spirited for someone like him. That she would wake up one day and realize he was dull, that whatever pull she felt toward him now would fade the second she wanted something more, something he could never give.

But deep down, he knew it was a lie.

Because Mollie wasn’t like her.

She hadn’t tried to change him. Hadn’t pushed against his quiet, reserved nature. If anything, she had met it with something close to understanding.

Sure, she picked fun at him, but it was never cruel. It had always felt like an invitation—like she was waiting to see if he’d give it back. And maybe he had, in small ways. Maybe, despite himself, he had started to let her in.

Maybe he had wanted to.

She had sought him out more than the other way around, had been the one to cultivate something between them—a friendship, maybe, or something that had always been teetering on the edge of more.

She saw him.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Harvey let out a slow breath, sinking back against the chair. The room was dim, the streetlights outside casting uneven patterns against the walls.

He wanted her.

There was no point in denying it now, not to himself.

But he was convinced he couldn’t have her.

And after tonight, the damage had already been done. He would have to live with the consequences. Which meant solidifying the walls he had already built. Reinforcing them, brick by brick, until they were unshakable. Until whatever had started tonight became nothing more than a passing mistake.

It had to be.

Because if he let himself near her again, if he let himself want, it would only end one way.

Harvey blinked at the kitchen counter the next morning, his eyes gritty, the empty mug in front of him marked by the faint smudge of his grip.

He had only meant to have one cup.

He poured a second.

His head throbbed, just enough to be irritating—not quite a hangover, but close. He rubbed at his temple, wincing as he swallowed down more coffee. The bitterness hit his tongue wrong, but he drank it anyway, needing something to push back against the exhaustion dragging at his limbs.

Everything felt off.

He had skipped his run. His body hadn’t wanted to move, and the idea of forcing himself through the motions, through the same paths, the same roads—it had felt unbearable. 

The clock on the wall ticked out the minutes, steady, unbothered. He needed to go downstairs. Needed to be normal.

But normal felt different today.

Harvey grabbed his coat, shoved his arms through the sleeves. As he moved toward the door, his reflection caught him off guard—glimpsed in the hallway mirror, stark in the early morning light.

He looked awful.

His shirt was rumpled, the shadows beneath his eyes deep enough to make him look like he had aged five years overnight. His glasses were smudged, his hair unsettled from too many frustrated hands running through it. Mollie’s hands, too, last night.

He exhaled sharply, adjusting his collar. He had to pull himself together.

Maru clocked it the second he stepped into the clinic.

"You look like you didn’t sleep," she said, barely glancing up from her clipboard. "Everything okay?"

His response was too quick. "Fine."

Maru made a noncommittal noise, clearly unconvinced.

He ignored it, moving toward his desk, trying to focus—appointments, inventory, charts, anything. But the work felt like an afterthought, and the weight in his chest hadn’t lifted.

The hours blurred. He saw patients. Prescribed antibiotics. Listened to concerns. Went through the routine he had built his life around.

None of it helped.

Late in the afternoon, the clinic door creaked open again. Harvey barely glanced up from his computer, fingers still moving over the keyboard.

Sam.

He, too, looked like shit.

Not sick—just tired. The kind of tired that settled deep in the bones, the kind that meant something had kept him up too late.

Harvey should have commented. Should have asked how he was sleeping, whether he was stressed. But instead, he stayed silent, keeping his gaze fixed on the computer screen, pretending to be too busy to care.

Maru greeted him instead. "Hey, you picking up for your mom?"

"Yeah," Sam said, rubbing the back of his neck. "She wanted me to grab it before she forgets again."

Maru flipped through the prescription notes, not looking up as she asked, "Did you guys do anything for Halloween?"

Sam let out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to a scoff. "Yeah. The Spirit’s Eve thing." He hesitated. "It was fine."

Maru looked up at that, brow arching. "That’s it? No party after? You’re usually all over that."

Sam shrugged. "Didn’t do anything too crazy."

Maru didn’t push it. Instead, she handed over the prescription bag, then leaned casually against the counter. "Are you guys still coming over for dinner tonight?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, a few of us are." He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not sure if Mollie is, though."

Harvey’s fingers froze over the keyboard.

Maru tilted her head, clearly picking up on the shift in Sam’s tone. "Huh. She told Seb she was."

"Yeah, well." Sam let out a humorless little exhale, tapping the prescription bag against his palm. "I don’t know. She’s been—" He shook his head. "Whatever. If she shows, she shows."

"Well, tell her she better, or I’m hunting her down myself."

Sam let out something that might have been a chuckle, but it didn’t quite land. "I’ll let her know."

And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving behind only the sharp scent of the cold air outside.

Harvey kept his eyes on his screen, pretending he hadn’t been listening.

But his thoughts were already spinning.

Not sure if Mollie is.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was just busy.

Or maybe, maybe—

No. Not his business.

He clenched his jaw, focusing on the chart in front of him. It didn’t matter if something had happened between them. Didn’t matter if she was distant, if things weren’t as easy between her and Sam as he had assumed.

Mollie needed to be with someone like Sam. Someone fun. Someone light. Someone who didn’t overthink every second of his own existence.

Someone who wasn’t him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: Good Guy

The ceiling had held her attention for an hour. White paint, a hairline crack cutting across it, the slow sweep of light through the blinds. Smoke still clung to the room, the last cigarette from the pack burned out in the tray on the nightstand. The glass on the floor was empty, a faint red ring dried at the bottom.

It was easier to stay like this, still and heavy, than to think about the night before. But her mind kept circling back.

Harvey’s mouth still warm against hers. His hands on her hips. The sound of his voice when he pulled away, quiet but sharp enough to leave a mark. Then the door, shutting him out of the cabin and her out of whatever might have happened next.

The air had felt bigger after that. Colder. She’d stood in it for a while, cigarette in one hand, his leftover wine in the other, letting the burn of both settle somewhere low in her chest. Laughed once, not because it was funny, but because it was stupid.

She hadn’t planned to do anything after that. She should have let the night swallow itself, carried the ache to bed. But the silence hadn’t lasted long.

Her phone had been on the couch. She’d picked it up without thinking. 

Michael’s name was still there, buried in her contacts. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crept in—call him, hear him, slip into something familiar—but it still hit like a sour taste. Her thumb had hovered over the screen, the old pull sitting heavy in her chest. It would be easy. Too easy.

She swiped away before she could think about it any harder. No. She’d spent too long keeping that door shut, making sure he had nowhere to wedge himself in. The texts he still sent every now and then weren’t invitations. They were traps.

She just needed something simple.

Sam’s name sat near the top of her messages, his last text from weeks ago, after their fight on Halloween, still unread.

Message me when you’re ready to talk.

She’d stared at it for a moment, then typed, Hey.

His reply had come almost instantly. Hey.

Can we talk?

A pause. Then: Yeah. You okay?

She ignored the question. Come over?

Be there in 20.

The memory of it sat heavy now, as stale as the smoke in her lungs. She dragged her gaze back to the ceiling, wishing she could erase the night, erase the morning, erase the need that had driven her to him in the first place.

The memory unfolded whether she wanted it to or not.

By the time Sam had knocked, she’d already poured herself another glass of Harvey’s wine, lit another cigarette. She remembered opening the door with it still between her fingers, the bitter taste clinging to her tongue.

He looked the same as always—messy blond hair falling into his eyes, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for something. But there was a softness in the way he smiled at her, tentative, like he was grateful she’d even reached out.

“Hey,” he’d said, voice low.

She hadn’t answered, just stepped back to let him inside. He toed his shoes off by the door, glanced around the cabin like he expected it to look different. Cleaner. More lived in.

They sat on the couch at first, silence stretching until it was unbearable. She remembered blurting an apology she didn’t mean to give. Sam nodded like he’d been waiting for it. Told her it was fine. Told her he’d missed her.

His patience was worse than anger. It made her chest ache.

So she kissed him. Quick, clumsy, tasting of wine and ash. Different than the one she shared with Harvey just an hour prior. He froze at first, then leaned in, cautious, like he was afraid of breaking her.

It hadn’t taken long to move to the bedroom. She remembered the way his hands shook when he touched her, how gentle he tried to be, how much she wished he wouldn’t be. For him, it was careful, tender. For her, it was noise—something to drown out the memory of Harvey’s hands, Harvey’s voice. His rejection. 

When it was over, Sam tried to stay. Reached for her. She pulled back, told him she needed to sleep. That she’d call him. The look on his face stuck even after the door shut.

And then it was just her again.

The memory tightened in her throat. She shifted under the sheets now, dragging a hand over her face like she could wipe it away. But it lingered, stubborn as smoke, heavy as the crack in the ceiling above her.

She hadn’t needed a crystal ball to see what would happen with Sam. The second she hit send on that text, she knew it would hurt him. No ifs, ands, or buts—just a guarantee.

And now, lying here, she felt young. Too young. Like another version of herself had crawled back out, the one she thought she’d buried when she came to Pelican Town. But apparently all it took was Harvey pulling away to drag her old self out by the hair.

Rejection always cut deep.

The last time it had gutted her like this was after her father died. She’d hidden out at Michael’s place, hollowed out and aching, and he’d treated her grief like an inconvenience. Called her pathetic, told her to leave. Broke up with her because pain wasn’t fun to be around. Before that, she’d been left behind by her own parents, their rejection stitched into her bones long before she knew the word for it.

So yeah. Rejection stung.

But she wasn’t going to fall apart just because Dr. Harvey had decided he didn’t want to kiss her. She wasn’t going to become a shell of herself over some man who, at the end of the day, was just like the rest of them. Men always left. Better to get used to it, take it on the chin, pretend it didn’t matter.

That afternoon, Mollie heard the mower cut out in a cough before it sparked back to life. She grabbed two cups of coffee and put on some boots before heading outside.

Grass clippings stuck wet and uneven to Shane’s boots as he yanked the hood of his sweatshirt down, running a hand across his forehead. He looked like he hadn’t slept, eyes shadowed, skin sallow beneath the sun.

“Shane,” Mollie called.

No reaction.

“Shane!” Louder this time.

He finally glanced up, killed the engine, and trudged toward the porch. Dug a crumpled pack from his pocket, shook a cigarette free and passed it up to her without asking. The lighter clicked twice before catching. He cupped the flame with his hand, close enough she caught the bite of gasoline and sweat off him. She took a drag and passed him the black cup of coffee.

“You look like hell,” he said flatly.

Mollie smirked around the drag. “Good morning to you too.”

He lowered himself onto the step beneath her, legs stretching out long in the dirt. They sat like that, smoke curling sideways into the cut-grass air, neither in a rush to talk. The mower sat abandoned halfway across the yard, blade still ticking as it cooled.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. There was something about the set of his shoulders, the way he stared at nothing in particular, that felt… steady. Not warm exactly, but solid, like he wasn’t expecting anything from her. It was rare, and it put her oddly at ease.

“Appreciate you doing that,” she said after a while, flicking ash over the steps. “I should’ve gotten to it days ago.”

Shane snorted. “Yeah, well. Grass doesn’t care who does it.” He took a long drag, exhaled slow. “Besides, it’s something to do. This place’ll drive you insane if you don’t find ways to kill the time. Better than drinking myself stupid before lunch.”

She glanced back down at him. He wasn’t looking at her, just squinting toward the tree line, jaw tight like he hadn’t meant to let the words out at all.

“Still,” Mollie said softly. “Thanks.”

He looked back then, gave her a crooked half-smile. “No, thank you. For letting me help out around here. You could’ve told me to fuck off the first time I showed up.”

She let out a sharp laugh. “Pretty sure I sort of did.” Mollie smiled, reminiscing on the time Shane caught her mid-freakout over the damn mower not working. “Guess I don’t mind the free labour.”

Shane smirked, dragged the cigarette to its end, and ground it out on the step. “And thanks for helping Evelyn out, by the way.” Mollie shifted, guilt pricking. She hadn’t been by in days. Evelyn hadn’t complained—she never did—but that didn’t make the absence feel any better. “She deserves it,” Shane added, almost like he could read the thought off her. His voice was quieter this time, less guarded. “Not a lot of people would bother.”

The words sat heavy between them. Mollie stubbed her cigarette out against the bannister and stood, brushing her palms against her sweats.

“Shit,” she muttered, half to herself. “I should be over there now.”

Shane gave a short nod, like that was exactly what he’d been steering her toward all along. He didn’t say anything more, just reached for another cigarette and lit it as she slipped back inside to change.

The bike ride into town left her legs burning, air sharp in her lungs. By the time she coasted down Main, the streets were cluttered with people—grocery bags swinging, kids trailing sticky hands, couples stopping to talk in the middle of the sidewalk like no one else existed. Mollie kept her eyes low, slipping through without slowing.

She spotted Haley on Evelyn’s front steps, sunshine catching in her hair, a tote slung loose over one shoulder. Mollie braked, kicked the stand down, and walked her bike to the curb.

Haley spotted her before she spoke. Her mouth curled, sharp. “Nice sweatpants.”

“Thought I’d dress up just for you.” Mollie smirked. “What are you doing here?”

Haley adjusted the strap on her tote. “Alex is back from school. Drove in for Thanksgiving.”

Right. Alex. Mollie always forgot he technically lived here sometimes. He slipped through town like smoke, more rumor than person unless Haley was swearing about him.

“Bet you’re thrilled,” Mollie said.

Haley’s shrug was all shoulder, no conviction. “Yeah. It’s whatever.”

Mollie caught that. Knew that with Haley, similar to herself, everything was “whatever” but it very rarely was. But she also knew that her and Alex were anything but stable. 

Haley rolled her eyes, as if rolling the weight of Alex off her. “Anyway. Speaking of Thanksgiving, what are your plans? Going back to the big city?”

“Definitely not.” Mollie looked down at a scuff on her boot, and scuffed it worse with the other. “No plans. Figured I’d be here with Evelyn.”

Haley shook her head, eyes cutting back toward the house. “She and Alex are going to Seb’s. Robin’s hosting—big thing, half the town is basically invited.” She rolled her eyes like she couldn’t believe it herself. “Come. It’ll be better if you’re there. I need someone to talk shit with.”

Mollie smirked. “What an honor.”

Haley tugged her coat tighter, started down the walk. “Next weekend. No excuses.”

Mollie didn’t answer, just watched her cross the street. Weird, how easy it had gotten between them. They’d never call it friendship out loud, but there it was anyway—sharp words covering the fact that they wanted each other around.

She pulled her bike closer to the porch, took the steps two at a time, and let herself into the house.

The dough stuck to her hands, gluey and stubborn, and she wondered how Evelyn made it look easy. Mollie’s palms were streaked white with flour, wrists aching from the motion. She wanted a cigarette, not bread.

When she’d walked in earlier, Alex had been spread across the couch like he owned the place, beer sweating in his hand. He’d looked her over with that grin—lazy, cocky, the kind that assumed she’d take it as a compliment. She’d swallowed the urge to cut him down, teeth sharp behind her lips. What good would it do? He was Evelyn’s grandson. Evelyn’s pride. Evelyn’s last. And Mollie knew better than anyone what it felt like to have someone pick apart the scraps of family you had left.

So she’d kept her mouth shut and busied herself with chores, moving restless from sink to counter to laundry basket. Anything to keep her hands moving, to keep from sinking into the same chair Alex had, drinking until she was useless.

Now she was elbow-deep in sourdough starter, and all she could think about was the night before. And the way she’d gone running to Sam after. Back to the same bad habits. Men, sex, empty wine bottles left on the counter.

She wasn’t heartbroken; she was humiliated. There was a difference. One came with tears, the other with cigarettes.

The dough clung to her fingers as she pressed harder into it, jaw tight, pretending she was working at it instead of herself. Evelyn hummed beside her, pleased, proud. As if everything was right in the world.

And maybe that was why Mollie couldn’t stop picking at the thought of Sam. The more she tried to frame it, the more it made sense—or she made it make sense. He liked her. Always had. He wasn’t afraid to say it, either. He’d shown up when she asked, waited when she disappeared, said things Harvey never would. So what was the crime in taking a little of that?

Maybe she deserved it. Maybe she just wanted to know she could still make someone want her. Was she really waiting around for Harvey to act, only to be used by him instead? Probably.

She tore at the dough again, watched it stretch and resist. Using Sam had offered a kind of relief—not the good kind, but the familiar one.

The easy choice. Not that Harvey had given her a choice.

Evelyn pressed a loaf of bread into her hands before she left, wrapped in a paper bag still damp with warmth. Mollie set it in the basket of her bike and pushed off down the road, the smell of yeast and butter drifting up in faint waves as she wheeled down the walk.

Dusk had settled strangely that evening—blue-gray and hollow, as if at any moment it would be blanketed with a layer of snow. The streets were almost empty. Porch lights blinked alive one by one, slow and deliberate, each a small reminder that people were inside, together, doing what people did at the end of the day.

She pedaled slow. The bread bag crinkled each time the front wheel bumped over a crack. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, then nothing.

At the bend near the post office, she stopped. From here, she could see the clinic across the square—one light still on upstairs, dim through the curtain. Harvey’s apartment. The rest of the building was dark.

She stayed there a while, shoes pressing into the cold dirt, hands still on the handlebars.

She wondered if he was sitting at his desk right now, writing something down or listening for planes passing in the night sky, pretending not to think about her too while the hum of radio static surrounded him. The thought was stupid, and she let it go.

The paper bag rustled in the basket when the wind shifted, brushing against her knee. She stared at it—at the small, ridiculous evidence of goodness she hadn’t earned. The kind of kindness that only made her feel worse.

“Fine,” she murmured. The word fogged in the air, barely there.

She turned the bike toward home and started to ride. The street narrowed, the lights behind her thinning until only the clinic’s glow remained. Then that too was gone, swallowed by the dark, leaving just the steady hum of her tires against the road and the bag of cooling bread crinkling with each turn of the wheel.