Page 98 of Without a Trace
One by one, they peeled off.
Rhett with a lazy grin. Kane with a half-joking threat to steal the last drink. Alden—silent, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other—caught my eyes before turning away. That look meant something. It always did.
And then it was just me and Trace.
Of course it was.
I didn’t look at him. Just sipped my drink staring at the fire like it might give me answers.
“You don’t have to hover,” I muttered.
“I’m not,” he said softly. “I’m remembering.” He shifted beside me, dragging a hand across his jaw, then scratching at the inside of his forearm—just below where the ink of that damn tattoo sat buried beneath his shirt sleeve.
“Remembering what? “I asked.
He half smiled, “That summer.”
I swallowed.
“That night,” he added.
Of course, he meant that night. The one we never talked about. The one where everything nearly tipped.
“Say it,” I whispered.
His eyes stayed on the flames. “You were barefoot on the dock, holding your heels like a weapon. Sunset made your hair look like it was on fire.”
I didn’t breathe. I could hear the pain in his voice. Could feel it in the space between us—tight, trembling, full of ghosts.
He shifted, dragged the hand over the back of his neck.
“You told me to stop looking at you like that. I didn’t.”
“You said you had a secret,” I said, voice thin.
He nodded. “And you said you didn’t want to know it.”
“I didn’t,” I whispered. “Because I already knew.”
He turned his face slightly, just enough for the light to catch his profile.
“I loved you.”
There it was.
The truth we buried so deep we forgot it was real.
“You didn’t say it then.”
I turned my head slowly. Met his eyes, steady and dark in the firelight. “You left.”
“I had to.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He exhaled, his voice fraying at the edges. “I stood in front of your door the next morning, Scar. Bag in the truck. Ready to say it. To ask you to leave with me.”
I blinked up, refusing to let it break me. “Then why didn’t you knock?”
