The rain had stopped sometime during the night, leaving the world washed and still. A pale gray light filtered through the guest room curtains, soft and sleepy. The silence in the farmhouse wasn’t empty—it was full. Full of warmth. Full of breath. Full of old wood and ticking clocks, and the low hum of a stove working in another room.

Joey blinked his eyes open slowly, adjusting to the dimness. For a second, he forgot where he was.

Then he felt the weight of an arm draped across his waist. Heavy. Solid. Safe.

D.

He was still asleep and Joey didn’t move—not right away. He just lay there, curled against D’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under his ear. D's skin was warm against him, his breath slow and deep, rumbling in his chest with every exhale.

Joey tilted his head to look up.

D’s face, softened by sleep, was almost unrecognizable. The hard edges—the tension he wore like armor—were gone, melted away in the quiet. His brow was smooth. Lips slightly parted. He looked peaceful. Vulnerable, even.

Beautiful.

Carefully, he reached up, not wanting to wake him, and brushed his fingers over the short curls on D’s head. They were coarse beneath his touch—tight and springy, like tiny coils under his fingertips. It was nothing like the soft, silky strands of his own hair and Joey’s hand lingered for a second, marveling at the difference. He liked it. He really liked it. Something about the texture grounded him, reminded him just how different D was from anyone he’d ever known… and how much he wanted everything about him.

He’s mine, Joey thought fiercely. And maybe not just for now, but…maybe forever.

Joey smiled faintly, his heart clenching, full and aching.

He wanted to stay like this all morning. Wrapped up in D. Pretending this was a normal life—some small town romance, waking up in a warm bed with someone you loved. Pancakes waiting downstairs. No secrets. No danger. Just… being.

But reality tugged at the edges.

There was movement in the house. Quiet footsteps. The smell of something buttery and sweet teasing under the door—like toast or frying batter. Joey’s stomach growled in response. Still smiling, he leaned down and brushed his lips against D’s cheek.

“I’m g-gonna go see what’s for br-breakfast,” he whispered.

D twitched faintly but didn’t stir.

Satisfied, Joey slipped out of bed, padded naked across the cool wooden floor, and grabbed his clothes from the chair—the flannel shirt, his jeans from Walmart, and his boots from the day before.

The little bathroom off the guest room was lit by a small window over the sink, washed with early gray light. Joey stepped in and turned on the shower.

It wasn’t powerful—just a gentle stream—but it filled the tiny room with steam quickly. He stepped in, hissing softly at the temperature, and scrubbed down fast. D’s scent was still on him. His mouth. His skin. Joey flushed thinking about it, about the way D had watched him like that, touched him so perfectly.

Joey’s lips were still puffy, too. He could see it in the mirror as he toweled off—his bottom lip slightly swollen and kiss-bruised. His neck too, if he turned just right.

Joey smiled. Shy and proud and absolutely wrecked. He finished up in the bathroom, smoothing his wild hair down in a last ditch effort.

Fully dressed, damp hair sticking up just slightly, boots on, Joey stepped out into the hallway. The house creaked under his feet but didn’t seem to mind him being there. It felt lived in. Familiar, in that old-timey, tucked-away kind of way. Somewhere you could disappear.

He started to make his way toward the kitchen, but slowed when he reached the edge of the family room.

The landline was in there. He could maybe call his mom again, just real quick before breakfast. It had been days since they’d last spoke. She probably thought he was dead.

Joey stopped at the edge of the doorway and peeked around the corner.

Bo was in there.

The old man sat in his recliner, one leg crossed over the other, steaming mug of black coffee in hand. The morning news played quietly on the TV. The volume was low, but the headlines flashed bold across the screen. Something about an ongoing investigation. Police activity. Images flickered: men in suits. Crime scenes. Flashes of downtown Cleveland.

Joey didn’t process any of it. Couldn’t read the words scrolling across the screen.

He just grimaced and backed up a little, annoyed. He couldn’t exactly use the phone now. Not with Bo right there. Figures, he thought. First chance I get to try again, and he’s camped out like a watchdog.

He slipped past the doorway without being noticed, booted steps muffled by the hallway rug.

The kitchen was bright with morning light—soft shafts pouring through the lace-curtained window over the sink, catching the steam rising from a skillet on the stove. The floor was warm under Joey’s boots, and the air was thick with the cozy, lived-in comfort of a house that’d seen a hundred years of breakfasts just like this one.

Dolly stood at the stove, her apron dusted in flour, humming some old tune as she flipped pancakes onto a growing stack. Her gray curls were pinned back today, and she moved with the kind of easy grace that made her seem like she’d been born holding a spatula.

She turned when she heard him enter, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Well, good mornin’, sweetheart,” she said with a knowing little smile. “You sleep alright?”

Joey paused mid-step, cheeks instantly flushing. “Y-yeah,” he mumbled. “R-really good.”

“Mmhmm.” She turned back to her pancakes, flipping one with a crisp motion. “Could’ve guessed that, the way you two were lookin’ at each other last night. Thought I was gonna have to throw cold water on ya before I even got the door open.”

Joey froze, ears going red.

“I mean, I get it,” Dolly went on, utterly unbothered. “He’s tall, built like a lumberjack, eyes like a storm cloud. What’s a poor boy like you supposed to do?”

Joey let out a strangled little laugh and covered his face with one hand. “Oh my g-god.”

Dolly cackled. “Don’t be embarrassed! I ain’t young, but I ain’t dead either. Trust me—I’ve seen all kinds of houseguests over the years. Y’all were practically floating last night.”

“Y-yeah…” Joey ducked his head, grinning now despite himself. His face was on fire.

“You hungry?” Dolly asked, turning sweet again.

Joey nodded quickly. “S-starving.”

“Well then,” Dolly said, setting the spatula down and wiping her hands, “how about you help this old lady out and go fetch me some eggs? Coop’s just out back. Need six, maybe seven, and make sure to check under the roosts. Lazy hens’ve been hiding ‘em.”

Joey took the wicker basket she held out. “S-sure, okay.”

“Watch your step,” Dolly added, “ground’s still damp from the storm.”

Joey gave her a sheepish smile and headed for the back door, heart still thudding like a rabbit’s. The back porch creaked under his boots as he stepped out into the morning light. The storm had scrubbed the whole world clean—leaves glittered with dew, and the damp earth smelled rich and green. Somewhere out near the trees, a rooster crowed like he meant it.

Determined, Joey pulled the sleeves of his flannel down over his hands and headed for the coop, basket swinging loosely from his fingers.

The chicken coop wasn’t far. Just a little ways past the garden D had cleaned out yesterday. The coop itself looked like an old playhouse—white paint peeling, a crooked little ramp leading up to a door held shut with a latch and a brick.

He bent down, removed the brick, and opened the door slow.

“Okay, l-l-ladies,” he murmured. “D-don’t freak out.”

Inside, it was warm and dusty and filled with the soft rustle of feathers. The hens barely reacted to him—just a few sideways glares and one lazy cluck. They were settled on their roosts, puffed up and smug, like they knew they were queens of this tiny kingdom.

Joey stepped in and crouched, peering under the low wooden platforms.

No eggs.

“What the hell,” he whispered, then caught himself and said, “S-s-sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

One of the hens blinked at him like she didn’t forgive him.

Joey sighed and started checking under the nesting boxes. Still nothing. Then he spotted a flash of white behind a bale of straw.

“Aha—g-gotcha!”

He reached in and retrieved one warm egg. Then another. Then another from a suspicious-looking corner behind a water dish. He grinned, basket starting to fill.

“That’s three,” he counted softly. “F-four… f-five…”

Number six was under a particularly stubborn hen who was not impressed by his presence. Joey crouched low, hands out, pleading like she could understand him.

“I n-need that,” he said. “P-p-please. Don’t be a jerk.”

She puffed up bigger.

Joey winced and reached under her anyway—and promptly yelped as she pecked his wrist.

“Y-yeowch! W-why you gotta be like that?” he laughed, pulling his arm back. “I didn’t d-do anything to you!”

The hen fluffed and strutted away like she’d won something, and—victory!—Joey snatched the last egg from her nest. He held it up, triumphant, and gave a breathless, sheepish laugh. “S-seven.”

Walking back toward the house, Joey couldn’t stop grinning. His wrist smarted, and his boots were muddy, but the basket was full and warm and heavy in his arms. The morning sun was higher now, gold on his back, and he felt something bloom in his chest—something light and good.

This is what it feels like, he thought. To be okay. To have a little place in the world. Even if it’s just for a minute.

He jogged the last few steps up the porch, holding the eggs carefully, cheeks pink from the chill and the effort and maybe still from Dolly’s teasing.

The back door creaked open as Joey stepped in, cradling the basket of warm eggs like they were treasure. His boots thudded softly on the worn kitchen floor, a puff of cool air following him inside.

And there he was.

D, already up and dressed, leaned against the counter with a mug of black coffee in one hand, the other braced on the edge of the sink as he watched Dolly finish up at the stove. His sleeves were rolled, showing his thick forearms, and the soft flannel clung in just the right way around his chest and shoulders.

Joey stopped in his tracks, heart thumping.

Then D glanced over and caught Joey’s eye and his whole face changed. That small, crooked smile. Those eyes soft and familiar now. The same ones that had looked into Joey’s last night and whispered I love you.

Joey’s heart did a dumb somersault.

“Y’get the eggs?” D asked, voice a low morning rasp.

Joey nodded quickly. “S-seven,” he managed, holding up the basket like proof of worth. “O-one of the h-hens pecked me.”

“Aww, poor baby,” D chuckled, reaching out and rubbing his thumb lightly across Joey’s wrist where the angry little mark showed.

Joey flushed—cheeks going pink, eyes flicking to Dolly, who was definitely watching.

She grinned.

“Don’t mind me,” Dolly said, flipping the last pancake onto the pile with flair. “Y’all are just too cute. I’m surprised Bo hasn’t come out here with a shotgun though, the way you two keep makin’ moon-eyes.”

Joey nearly dropped the basket.

D snorted into his coffee.

“I’m kidding, sweetheart,” Dolly said, laughing as she took the eggs and set them gently beside the stove. “Mostly. But I am startin’ to wonder where Bo is. Man never misses breakfast.”

She frowned faintly toward the hallway, but didn’t dwell. Instead, she turned back and started plating up the food.

“Sit. Eat,” she ordered. “You boys got another full day of work ahead of you.”

They obeyed, sliding into mismatched chairs at the little kitchen table. Dolly served generous helpings—fluffy golden pancakes, a little bowl of fruit, and more butter than any human probably needed.

Joey dug in, quiet and glowing. His stomach was loud and happy, but his chest felt even fuller. Every time D passed him the syrup or nudged his foot under the table, Joey's heart flipped.

He didn’t know how to do this—any of this. But he didn’t want it to end.

D leaned over halfway through his second pancake. “I’m gonna go smoke before we start,” he said quietly, brushing Joey’s thigh beneath the table. “Coming with?’

Joey nodded, swallowing his last bite and followed him out the kitchen door.

The air outside was a little warmer now, the clouds lifting to reveal slivers of pale blue sky. Dew still clung to the grass and glinted on the porch railing.

D pulled out his crumpled pack of cigarettes, offering one to Joey.

“I thought you w-were rationing me,” Joey teased, but took it anyway.

“Soft spot,” D muttered, lighting both of theirs with a steady hand.

They stood there for a minute, shoulder to shoulder, quiet except for the soft crackle of tobacco and the distant calls of birds in the trees.

Joey closed his eyes, breathing it all in. The smoke. The morning. D.

Something brushed his ankle.

He looked down and saw Percy, the gray farm cat, rubbing slow circles around his boots.

“H-hey there,” Joey said gently, crouching down to scratch behind his ears.

Percy purred, loud and rusty like an old engine.

Joey grinned. “I th-think he likes me now.”

D looked down, smoke curling from his mouth. “He’s got good taste.”

“You’re g-gonna make me steal him,” Joey whispered, grinning. “T-take him on the run with us.”

D chuckled and flicked ash off the side of the porch.

They finished their smokes in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward at all. Just full. Full of knowing.

When Joey turned to flick his ash into the grass, D caught his wrist.

“C’mere,” he said.

Joey looked up—and D kissed him.

Slow and warm and deep.

Joey melted right into it. His hand fumbled to D’s chest. The kiss was soft but grounding, like D was telling him something all over again, wordless this time, and it left Joey breathless, his chest tight with emotion.

When they broke apart, Joey blinked up at the other man, dazed.

D thumbed a piece of ash from his cheek and nodded toward the barn. “C’mon,” he murmured, voice low. “Let’s get to work.”

Joey nodded dumbly and followed him off the porch without a word, still tingling from head to toe.

The barn was golden in the morning light, beams slanting through high windows like something from a dream. Dust hung in the air, stirred gently by the breeze through the open doors.

D moved with a quiet kind of focus, digging through bins for supplies. Wire cutters. Fencing staples. Hammers. A spool of rust-kissed wire.

“We’ll start on the stretch behind the side pasture—closer to the house,” he said, tossing a pair of gloves to Joey.

Joey barely caught them. “They’re h-huge,” he said, laughing as he shoved his hands in anyway.

“You’ll grow into ‘em.”

Joey snorted. “I’m n-not a kid.”

D gave him a look. “No, sweetheart. You’re definitely not.”

The way he said it made Joey’s stomach flutter. He looked away, biting back a grin.

D kept talking as he slung a coil of wire over his shoulder. “Once we get the fence patched, I’ll check the gutters. Then, if we’ve still got daylight after, we could shore up the chicken coop for winter too. That back corner's sagging. I saw you out there earlier—Bet you noticed. Damn hens are gonna freeze if it snows heavy.”

Joey’s heart gave a soft tug at the thought. “How… how long are we s-stayin’ here?” he asked.

D glanced over his shoulder, jaw twitching just a little. “Told Nina we’d leave tomorrow. At the latest.”

Joey’s face fell.

“We need to get to Leon’s before the cops get to us. Before Vinnie figures out where we’re going,” D said, not harsh, just… firm. Like it hurt to say out loud.

“I just…I w-wish we didn’t h-have to.” Joey looked down, kicking at the hay-dusted floor. “I—I like it here,” he admitted, voice soft.

D smiled sideways at him. “You’ve gone full country on me.”

Joey shrugged. “You s-say that like it’s a b-bad thing.”

“Just picturing you in overalls.”

Joey barked a laugh. “Don’t t-tempt me.”

They stepped out into the sun together, walking toward the overgrown fence line that ran along the edge of the property just below the orchard. It wasn’t far—maybe fifty yards from the house—but far enough to feel private. The grass was still damp, sparkling with dew. Leaves whispered in the breeze, tinged red and yellow with the change of season.

They worked side by side, falling into a rhythm. Joey held the wire steady while D hammered. They passed tools, crouched in the grass, stood again. The fence was old, but salvageable. Every time Joey handed D a nail, their fingers brushed, and every time it happened, Joey felt like he was short-circuiting a little.

D didn’t make a big deal out of it—but he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“Y-you know,” Joey said, after a while, “we could… just s-stay here.”

D looked over, one hand resting on the post. “You really like it that much?”

Joey nodded, pushing hair from his eyes. “It’s quiet. I like the q-quiet.”

D smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”

He meant it. Joey could hear it in his voice.

“Maybe when this is all over,” D said, not looking at him now, “we find a place like this. Fix up a house. Grow some vegetables. You can chase chickens. I’ll build you a porch swing or some shit.”

Joey’s heart squeezed. “You’d g-go stir crazy in two days.”

D chuckled. “Probably. But I’d try. For you.”

Joey looked down, flushing, suddenly unable to breathe quite right. “Y-you missed a spot,” he said after a while, nodding at the bottom rail.

“Where?” D crouched down beside him, scanning the wood.

Joey pointing vaguely. “There. Under the b-bramble.”

D reached down to look—and yanked his hand back a second later. “Jesus—something’s alive in there!”

Joey leaned in.

A huge spider skittered out from under a leaf and ran across the plank. Joey recoiled with a shriek, falling right onto his ass in the grass.

D startled, then swore under his breath and stomped his boot near the spider—not squashing it, just chasing it off. “That thing had knees. Joints. You see that? It was planning something!”

Joey burst out laughing. “It w-was not!”

“Bullshit. It just looked at me like it knew my credit score!”

Joey doubled over, giggling helplessly.

D just stared down at him, smirking. “You good?”

“I h-hate spiders,” Joey gasped. “H-hate them.”

“You think I don’t?” D said, reaching down and hauling him up by both hands. “Let’s agree to run screaming together next time.”

Joey stood, still laughing, but there was something warm glowing in his chest now—something softer than the sun, deeper than the morning. D was still holding his hands, thumbs brushing over the backs of them.

“You good?” D asked again, quieter now.

Joey nodded. “Y-yeah. Just… you.”

“Me?”

“You m-make everything feel easy,” Joey said, smiling. “Even when e-everything else is i-i-impossible.”

D smiled back, that real kind of smile that reached his eyes. “Nothing’s impossible, Joey…”

Joey looked up at him hopefully. D was gazing back at him intently, his dark eyes glittering with some unspoken emotion. They were standing close, D’s hand still holding Joey’s, and then—

Sirens.

Faint, at first. Then sharper.

Then close.

Joey went still. The smile died on his lips.

D turned toward the sound, already alert, already calculating. He dropped the wire, eyes narrowing at the rise in engine noise, the squeal of tires on gravel.

“D…?” Joey’s voice cracked.

“Back to the house,” D said calmly, no hesitation.

Joey hesitated—and D grabbed him.

“Now, Joey.”

They ran straight for the house.

Joey skidded to a halt in the wet grass just below the porch, turning back, heart in his throat as flashing red and blue lights tore around the bend in the gravel drive like demons cresting the horizon. The roar of engines hit them next—a dozen of them at least, barreling across the pasture in a mad spray of wheels and mud.

“Come on!” D barked, already pulling him up the stairs.

Police cruisers swerved into the yard from every direction—cutting across the grass, engines screaming. SUVs in unmarked black kicked up dirt and leaves, slamming to sudden halts. Tactical officers spilled out, some crouching low behind open doors, others moving fast, rifles raised, helmets gleaming.

A bullhorn crackled.

“Hands where we can see them! DO NOT RUN!”

But they were already running.

The screen door slammed against the siding as D and Joey burst into the farmhouse, their boots skidding on the old floorboards.

And then—Bo.

He was already there, standing firm in the hallway with a shotgun leveled and his feet braced wide. His gray hair stuck out in uneven wisps, and his face was twisted into something that looked like betrayal and disbelief all at once. Dolly was behind him, still in her apron, hands wringing nervously against her chest.

Joey shrieked and stumbled to a halt behind D.

D threw one arm protectively in front of him, stepping between Joey and the barrel of the shotgun. “Easy now,” he said, but Bo didn’t flinch.

“I knew something was wrong,” he said, voice like grit and gravel. “Didn’t feel right when we picked you up on the road yesterday. You two… the way you looked at each other. It felt off. Then, I see the news this morning.”

Joey blinked at him, panting, dizzy. “Wh-what—”

Bo’s voice was grim. “The two of you are wanted for double homicide in Ohio, aren’t you? The news said you were spotted in town. Said you were armed and dangerous. Real damn dangerous. I called the cops fifteen minutes ago.”

Joey felt his stomach bottom out.

Bo shook his head, stunned. “Didn’t think they’d show this damn fast. Guess you two really are bad news.”

“No,” D snapped, low and dangerous. “This kind of response? They were already coming. Someone else told them we were here.”

He lunged for the window, peeling back the curtain just a sliver—and what he saw made Joey’s stomach drop:

SWAT vans.

Snipers on the property edge.

Dogs barking from a K-9 unit nearby.

Officers were shouting, forming a line across the front field. A small team was laying down spike strips by the road while another converged in the drive, their eyes locked on the house like it might explode.

They weren’t just here to arrest them.

They were here to crush them.

And it was all Joey’s fault.

The call last night. On the landline.

To Josh.

Joey’s breath hitched. A wave of ice poured through him. “I—I c-called J-Josh last night,” he choked. “F-from the l-landline in the f-family room. I—I just w-wanted to tell him I was okay—”

D whipped around to face him, eyes blazing. “You what?”

“I—I didn’t th-think it’d—”

“You didn’t think, Joey!” D exploded. “God dammit!”

Joey flinched hard, shoulders curling like he’d been slapped. “I—I was j-j-just—m-my m-mom’s scared, D.”

D’s shoulders heaved. Then he turned back, face taut with fury and pain—but he didn’t shout again. He just exhaled, rough and ragged, and rubbed at his jaw like it ached.

Bo glanced between them, the gun still halfway raised, unsure now. “What’s really going on?” he demanded, voice cracking under the weight of the tension.

D stepped back, breathing hard through his nose. He didn’t look at Joey now. His voice was low. Controlled. “I was in the Cleveland mob,” he said, flat and bitter. “Already trying to get out. Then Joey came along. Just another dumb kid talked into doing drug runs for extra cash. He wasn’t important, but he saw something he shouldn’t’ve. Got caught up in something ugly and I was ordered to take him out.”

Bo’s eyebrows shot up.

D kept going. “But I didn’t. I couldn’t. We ran instead. Together.”

Joey looked at the floor, guilt burning behind his eyes.

“Now the mob’s after us,” D said. “That double murder? That was them. And now the cops are chasing us, too, probably fed some bullshit. All we’re trying to do is get to a safehouse in South Carolina where there’s evidence. Enough to take the whole damn family down.”

Dolly blinked.

Bo lowered the shotgun fully, jaw clenching. “Jesus.”

“Maybe…” Dolly started, hesitant. “Maybe you should just go out there. Talk to them. Tell ‘em the truth—”

“Not without the evidence,” D snapped. “That’s our bargaining chip. It’s all we’ve got.”

The bullhorn blared again outside, louder this time:

“We have the house surrounded. Come out with your hands up. THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING.”

Dolly gasped. “Oh God…”

Bo’s hands shook as he finally lowered the shotgun, his face a map of regret. “I didn’t know. I saw the news. I just… wanted to protect my wife.”

“You should’ve asked us,” D said bitterly, jaw tight.

“Yeah,” Bo whispered. “I know.” He looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

But D was already moving—fast. Peeking out windows, scanning the woods, the tree line. Calculating.

Dolly turned to Bo, urgent now. “The ATV—back by the woods. Is it still gassed?”

Bo nodded numbly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“The woods run deep that way,” Dolly said to D. “You’ll hit the lowland hollow, then the ridge. There’s an old fire trail past that. Maybe seven, eight miles. It’s rough terrain. But if you follow the riverbed, you’ll stay hidden.”

Bo reached into his pocket and reluctantly tossed D the keys. “Take it.”

D caught them without a word.

Bo hesitated for a second, then he broke. “Here,” he said, handing D the shotgun next. “Tell ‘em you overpowered me. Took it. Whatever.”

D grabbed it, slinging it over his shoulder.

Then Bo reached into his wallet and handed Joey a crumpled wad of bills. “It’s only ninety bucks. For your work. And… I’m sorry.”

Joey’s throat burned. “Th-thank you…” Then he turned to Dolly, and his face crumpled. “I—I d-don’t wanna g-go…”

“Oh, honey.” She pulled him into a quick, fierce hug. “Go on. You take care of each other now, you hear?”

“We w-will,” Joey whispered.

And then D was yanking open the back door, pulling Joey with him.

The screen door banged like a gunshot behind them—and then there were actual gunshots, cracking through the cold morning air with deafening force.

“Run Joey!”

Joey and D tore across the backyard, boots slamming the grass, lungs burning, hearts thudding like war drums. Red and blue lights painted the world in disorienting flashes—cops flooding the field now from both sides, swarming like ants from every crack in the property line.

“Down! Down! Hands where we can see them!”

POP—POP—POP!

Rifle fire rang out behind them, dirt and splinters flying where bullets hit the side of the house just seconds after they’d cleared it.

Joey screamed, stumbling in the mud—but D grabbed his arm and yanked him upright, dragging him toward the tree line. They raced through the high grass, leaping over an overturned water trough and ducking beneath the clothesline.

And there sat the ATV. Half-covered in leaves, tucked beside a crooked shed near the woods. There was a dusty bag of tools beside it and D hesitated for just a second before he grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder with the shotgun. He jumped on and slammed the key in next, the engine roaring like a wild animal.

“Get on!”

Joey vaulted onto the back just as the first wave of tactical officers stormed the slope, their rifles raised.

“DOWN! DO NOT MOVE!”

D hit the throttle and the ATV launched forward, tires spitting wet grass and gravel, nearly flipping before Joey wrapped his arms tight around D’s middle and held on for dear life.

Behind them, a K9 handler let go of his leash.

“HIT! GO! GO!”

A massive German Shepherd burst after them, teeth bared, snapping at Joey’s boot as the ATV hit the edge of the woods.

“D!!!”

D veered hard left, the tires skimming mud, clipping a fence post. The dog lunged and missed, tumbling into the ditch with a snarl.

A bullet whined past Joey’s ear. Another slammed into the trunk of a tree just ahead and bark exploded.

They ducked low, D steering one-handed now, the other reaching behind him to steady Joey.

Flashing lights stuttered through the branches behind them, chasing them even into the trees. Officers were shouting. The woods were no protection.

Not yet.

D drove like a man possessed, dodging trees and fallen logs, the ATV bucking beneath them with every root and ridge. The wind howled past Joey’s ears. His eyes streamed with tears. Leaves slapped his face. But he didn’t let go of D.

He couldn’t.

“Hang on!” D shouted.

“W-w-where’re we g-going!?”

“Anywhere they’re not!”

Behind them, the field was lit up like a stadium. Cop cars everywhere. Tactical units swarming the house. A megaphone voice screaming orders into the trees.

And then—gunshots again.

Closer this time.

“They’re still shooting!” Joey screamed.

“Not for long,” D growled, and twisted them down a steep slope, out of sight.

The ATV caught air for a second and landed hard. Joey gasped, his chest slamming into D’s back—but the woods thickened then, swallowing them, a blur of gold light and shadow.

Behind them, the world was exploding.

But they didn’t stop.

They couldn’t.

D kept driving, riding hard, putting as much distance between them and the farmhouse as he could.

The terrain got worse the deeper they drove.

The woods thickened—tight and gnarled and overgrown, branches slapping at their arms and shoulders, roots jutting up like claws. The ATV groaned under the strain, bouncing over tree stumps, tearing through bramble.

Joey held on as best he could, knuckles white where they clung to D’s flannel. But his grip was slipping. He didn’t know how long they’d been driving, an hour, maybe two? But his arms ached. Every jolt rattled his spine.

And then—

WHACK.

His head clipped a low branch and he cried out, fingers fumbling—

And suddenly he was falling.

Thump—crack—

Joey hit the ground hard, shoulder first, rolling through wet leaves and dirt.

“Joey!”

The ATV skidded to a stop and D was running back in an instant, boots pounding the earth.

Joey groaned, curled onto his side. His elbow was scraped raw. His jeans were torn. He blinked up at D, already crying, his chest heaving from shock and pain.

“Shit, baby—” D dropped to his knees beside him. “Where—where’re you hurt?”

“I—I—I’m fine—” Joey choked out, shaking his head, even as the tears kept falling. “F-f-fuck, I’m s-s-sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry. Don’t.” D touched his face, checked his limbs. His fingers were gentle, but fast, efficient. “Nothing broken? Lemme see that elbow—Christ, that’s a scrape, alright. C’mon, breathe with me.”

Joey tried. But the sobs just kept coming.

They weren’t from the fall. They were from everything else.

He’d ruined it.

They’d been safe. They had a roof over their heads. Food. Warmth. And now Dolly and Bo were back there with cops swarming the place—and it was his fault.

All because he’d called Josh.

Not even for long.

Just to tell his mom he was okay. But somehow, somehow that had been enough.

Josh wouldn’t have talked to the cops. He wasn’t a snitch. But maybe he’d told the wrong person. Or someone had overheard. Or maybe the landline itself was tapped.

It didn’t matter.

They’d been found. Because of him.

“I s-s-screwed everything up,” Joey gasped.

D didn’t answer right away. Just helped him sit up. “Can you walk?”

Joey nodded.

“Good.” He brushed the dirt off Joey’s back. “Let’s get moving.”

They didn’t talk much after that.

D rode slower this time, but Joey clung tighter, eyes blurred with guilt and exhaustion. D didn’t say anything. His shoulders were stiff. His jaw set.

The ATV followed the riverbed for another hour or two, weaving between trees and gliding through shallows when they had to. The water glittered in the late sun, but it did nothing to brighten the ache inside Joey’s chest.

Eventually, when the sky had shifted into golden afternoon, D pointed ahead.

A cabin.

Old. Crooked. Half-collapsed on one side, but standing. Windows boarded, but the front door still intact. Hidden in the woods like it had been waiting just for them.

They rolled to a stop and killed the engine.

Joey climbed off slowly, legs shaky. D tested the door, then shouldered it open.

Inside, the air was cold and stale. Dust floated in the sunlight. Cobwebs hung from the corners. But it was dry. Solid.

There was a little fireplace made of river stones, a wood table with two chairs, a rusted shelf with a few long-forgotten supplies—a can of baked beans, a busted old radio, a yellowing med kit covered in dust.

No bed.

No blankets.

Just a bare floor and some hope.

D set the shotgun near the door and dropped the bag of tools. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke.

“Let’s lay low here for the night.”

Joey nodded, arms wrapped around himself.

“Sit,” D said gently, gesturing to one of the chairs.

Joey obeyed, wincing as he moved. He kept his eyes down.

D crossed the room, pulled the old med kit from the shelf, and opened it on the table with a creak. There were some gauze pads, iodine, tape.

“Let me see that elbow,” D said.

Joey sat stiffly in the creaky wooden chair, knees close together, trying not to sniffle as D knelt beside him with the open med kit. The gauze felt cold where it touched his skin, and the scrape on his arm throbbed dully, but he didn’t really care. Not about that. Not about much of anything, honestly.

He’d ruined everything.

“I’ve had worse,” D muttered, using a bit of gauze to blot away the blood.

Joey winced at the sting, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t even flinch. Just watched the way D’s hands moved—calm, practiced, steady.

Why the hell was he always so steady?

The guilt buzzed like a mosquito in Joey’s skull. Every siren. Every shout. Every bullet back there in the woods. That was him. All of it. His fault. Because he was stupid and soft and couldn’t stop worrying about his mom. He’d picked up that landline like a goddamn idiot, and now…

D hadn’t said a word about it. Not since they’d fled the Hargroves’ farmhouse. But Joey felt it in the quiet. Heavy. Like pressure in the air before a storm.

When the bandaging was done, D stood up and gave his shoulder a squeeze, then moved away to look around the cabin. Joey didn’t follow. He stared at the floorboards and tried not to cry again.

Tried and failed.

“Beans,” D said after a second. His voice was casual. “Still sealed. No rust.”

Joey didn’t reply.

“Shit food, but edible,” D added, like he was hosting a cooking show. “Behold, the apocalypse menu: one can of beans and a dream.”

Still, Joey stayed quiet.

He heard D bring something to the table and began to fiddle with it—the old radio. A sharp static crackled to life, then died in a sputter of silence.

“No batteries, probably,” he said. “Or busted. Of course.”

Joey wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand and glanced over. “M-maybe I c-c-could fix it,” he said softly. “I used to… mess w-with old stuff. Radios. Bikes. I don’t know. Just s-stuff.”

D turned toward him, brows raised. “Yeah? That why you could hotwire a car in ninety seconds? You got the touch?”

Joey blinked. Then—kind of shyly—nodded.

“Damn.” D smiled. “You’ve got all these hidden talents.”

Joey’s lip twitched. “Y-you saying I’m a m-man of mystery?”

“I’m saying I clearly need to ask you for a résumé before we break any more laws together.”

That got a breath of laughter out of Joey. Soft. But real.

D plopped into the other chair, sprawling like he owned the place. “Anyway, you’re in luck, sweetheart. Turns out, I’m something of a wilderness expert.”

Joey blinked. “You’re w-what?”

“Survivalist.” D nodded sagely, pointing to himself. “I’ve watched a ton of survival stuff on YouTube. And the History Channel. Not often. But, y’know. When I’m bored. Or high.”

Joey sniffled. “You’re f-full of shit.”

“Absolutely,” D agreed. “But I’m serious. Fire-starting? Fishing with sticks? I know it all. Theoretically.”

Joey rolled his eyes. But the tight feeling in his chest had loosened, just a little.

“You watched v-videos about fishing?” he said, almost smiling.

“Watched a guy catch a catfish with dental floss and a shoelace once. Life-changing.”

Joey let out a breath, shaking his head. “S-sounds legit.”

D leaned back in the chair, tapping the can of beans. “This won’t feed us long. One can, two guys. No way. I say we hit the river. You bring the good looks, I’ll bring the wire.”

Joey laughed—genuine this time. “Y-you’re g-gonna fish with wire?”

“Improvisation, baby. It’s called survival.”

Joey studied him for a moment, warm despite himself. D was trying. D didn’t have to be this patient or this… silly, on purpose, just to make him laugh.

But he was.

Joey reached for the can. “W-we’re gonna die out here.”

“Probably,” D said brightly. “But first, I’m gonna catch a fish with my bare hands and a stick. Just you wait.”

Joey smiled faintly and shook his head. “I c-can’t wait to s-see this.”

The river cut a winding path through the woods, its surface catching sunlight like scattered coins. Joey stepped gingerly down the slope, boots slipping a little on the mossy incline. D was already crouched at the edge, grinning like an idiot and holding what could loosely be described as a fishing rod—an eyesore he’d pieced together with items from the bag of tools; a long stick with a thin length of wire tied to the end and a bent nail twisted into a crude hook.

“That is the s-stupidest thing I’ve ever seen,” Joey said, squinting at it.

“Hey,” D said, insulted. “This is art. Man versus wild. The essence of primal living.”

“You’re missing the p-part where the man knows w-what the f-fuck he’s doing.”

D flicked the wire out into the water. It landed with a sad little plop. “Precision,” he said smugly.

Joey sat down on a smooth rock nearby, arms around his knees. “You’re such a d-dork.”

D didn’t deny it. He sat with his boots dug into the muddy bank, holding the stick like a seasoned pro. For a while, they just listened to the river and birdsong, the occasional drip of water from an overhanging branch.

Joey broke the silence. “So… y-you really watch survival videos?”

“Yeah. And crime documentaries. Sometimes space stuff. YouTube’s a hell of a rabbit hole.”

“Huh.” Joey tilted his head. “I d-don’t know why, but I didn’t think you were the type. You’re so... strict. Serious. I c-can’t picture you smoking a j-joint and zoning out to YouTube.”

D glanced over, his smile crooked. “You’re forgetting I used to go to parties. I’ve smoked plenty of weed. And done dumber shit.”

Joey raised his brows. “Like w-what?”

“I’ll plead the fifth.” D winked. “But let’s just say I’ve had my share of fun. I’m not a monk, Joey. I just have discipline.”

“That sounds f-fake.”

D chuckled. “Nah. I like order. Always have. Routine. At night, I usually work out—weights, punching bag, core stuff. Every night before bed. Like clockwork.”

Joey blinked. “W-wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious.”

Joey’s mouth dropped open. “So… y-you smoke weed, watch science documentaries, and have a g-gym routine?”

D smirked. “Hard to believe, I know. I contain multitudes.”

“Mmm. S’like…you’re a cheat code for my h-heart or something.”

D barked a laugh, nearly jerking the line from the water. “What?”

Joey grinned. “S-sorry. I j-just—wow.”

Before D could respond, the stick jerked in his hands. “Shit,” he muttered. “Wait. Hold on—wait—”

The tip of the wire vanished underwater with a splash, and D yanked back. A wriggling, silver fish burst into the air, flipping like mad.

“Joey, grab it!”

“W-what?! No!”

“Come on! It’s slipping—get it!”

Joey scrambled up, but the fish hit the rocks and started flopping like a demonic water balloon. Joey screamed, panicking, trying to cup his hands around it.

“It’s g-got eyes!”

“Everything has eyes!”

“It’s looking at me!”

D doubled over, howling with laughter as Joey danced in circles trying to scoopup the fish without touching it.

“I can’t! I c-can’t—it’s slimy, D! Oh my god!”

Eventually, D stepped in, scooping it into an old bandana like a seasoned survivalist. “That, sweetheart, is dinner.”

Joey was wheezing. “Y-you are a monster.”

D wiped his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

They collapsed onto the grass beside the riverbank, the fish secured and wriggling in the cloth nearby.

Joey flopped onto his back, staring up at the trees. “I h-hope you know how to c-cook fish.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard, right?” D said, cocky again. “Just as soon as we figure out how to start a fire.”

Joey groaned loudly. “Oh g-god…”

D grinned. “Told you. History Channel.”

The sun was just starting to set when they finally made their way back to the cabin.

D knelt in front of the old fireplace with a flint, a half-broken lighter, and a pile of sticks they’d gathered from just outside. “I swear I saw this on YouTube once,” he muttered, brow furrowed in concentration. “It was... spark, oxygen, dry stuff—shit, how did they make it look so easy?”

“P-probably ed-edited it,” Joey said from where he sat cross-legged near the table, fiddling with the broken radio. He had the little tool bag open beside him, a screwdriver tucked behind his ear and a wiry spring pinched between his fingers.

“Oh good,” D grunted. “I was worried it was just me.”

They’d spent a good forty minutes gathering dry twigs, pine needles, and shredded bark. Both their hands were dirty and scraped, and the fire still hadn’t caught. D squinted into the fireplace, muttering about the guy he’d watched on YouTube, whether he’d said to build the teepee shape or the log cabin shape.

“I s-swear you’ve poked it m-more than the fire starter,” Joey said, half-teasing, half-exhausted.

D scowled over his shoulder. “Pretty sure this is how the guy did it in the video. Just gotta get the right spark-to-tinder ratio.”

“That’s… n-not a real thing.”

“Is too.”

Joey smiled, even though he tried not to. He glanced down at the radio again, guts all exposed, metal innards sprawled across the tabletop. He grabbed the screwdriver and used it to poke a loose wire gently back into place.

“I l-like YouTube too,” he offered, more quietly this time. “N-not survival stuff, though. I like—like mechanical videos. L-little fixes. Household shit.”

D gave the fire one more angry jab. “Yeah?”

Joey nodded, eyes still on the open radio. “It h-helps. Since I c-can’t… y’know, read too well. Videos m-make more sense. I l-learn better watchin’.”

He felt D look at him, just for a second. Didn’t say anything, though. Joey liked that about him. He didn’t make a big deal out of things.

“I replaced our w-water heater when I was s-seventeen,” Joey said, a little proud, a little shy. “W-watched like… three hours of v-videos. It worked. M-mostly.”

“Shit,” D muttered. “That’s impressive.”

Joey shrugged, smiling faintly. “Helped m-me fix up the Caliver too.”

D’s expression softened. “Your car?”

“Yeah.” Joey’s throat tightened. “I—I miss her. She’s p-probably sittin’ in a tow lot right now. With a—a bill I c-can’t ever pay.”

D smirked. “Guess you won’t be collecting on that sweet used car rebate.”

Joey groaned and rolled his eyes. “I m-miss her. She smelled like o-old cigarettes and bad decisions.”

“You just described me.”

Joey burst out laughing, almost dropping the screwdriver. “Y-yeah right.”

Behind him, something gave a soft crackle. He turned—just as D’s fire sparked to life.

D sat back, startled and victorious, watching as the little flame began to curl up the dry twigs. “Ha! Told you I remembered something. Boom. We got fire, baby.”

Then, at that exact moment, the radio sparked to life in Joey’s hands. A burst of fuzz, a squeal—and then, a twangy country voice filled the room.

Joey’s eyes lit up. “I—I did it!”

D turned, surprised. “No shit?”

Joey beamed, holding up the screwdriver like a trophy. “Th-there was a loose w-wire.”

The song on the radio was some old, sun-baked country ballad about beer and heartbreak—but it sounded like magic.

They looked at each other across the glow of fire and music, the cabin suddenly warmer, homier.

“Well,” D said, standing and brushing off his hands. “We’ve got beans, fish, fire, and now ambiance. What more do we need?”

Joey stood too, grinning. “A-a frying pan?”

“…Shit.”

They both laughed and got to work.

It took a bit of searching, but they ended up finding an old dented pot on a low shelf—covered in dust but still usable—and D set the beans to warm on a flat stone near the fire. The fish was another story.

“Don’t suppose this place came with a cast iron skillet,” D muttered, inspecting the empty hearth like a miracle might fall out.

Joey giggled and handed him a sharpened stick. “You’re t-the survival guy. Figure it out.”

D grunted but took the stick, stabbing it through the cleaned fish like he knew what he was doing. “Watch and learn, country boy.”

“I’m f-from Ohio.”

“Same thing.”

Joey rolled his eyes and wandered a few feet back toward the table as the little radio crackled again—then burst into song.

The beans were bubbling quietly in the dented pot D had rigged near the flames. The fish was slowly roasting over the fire on the stick, and Joey couldn’t help but grin every time D leaned in to rotate it, looking all proud and caveman-y about it.

And the song on the radio, Joey recognized it.

Joey was feeling silly. Warm. Safe. He swayed gently to the music, mouthing along at first, and then, without thinking, singing aloud.

“You looked at me like the sky might break… And I smiled, just to keep from fallin’…”

His voice didn’t stutter. Not a hitch. Just soft and real.

“You kissed me once like you meant forever… I kissed you back like I knew better…”

“I don’t need whiskey to drown out the pain… I’ve got these headlights and this broken-down name…”

Joey bounced on his toes, arms swaying as he sang out clearly

“I gave you my heart like a map without lines—now I’m lost all the time…”

He twirled clumsily near the fire, laughing to himself—and turned to find D watching him, fish forgotten, mouth parted slightly in surprise.

Joey stumbled to a halt, his cheeks flushing. “Wh-what?”

D smiled—slow, crooked, stupidly soft. “You’ve got a hell of a voice.”

Joey looked down, embarrassed. “I—I don’t usually s-sing in front of people. Just… in the shower.”

“No stutter,” D said, stepping closer, eyes glinting in the firelight. “You should sing more. It might help.”

Joey flushed deeper. “I d-don’t know, D. I—I was just m-messing around.”

D moved to him, slow and sure, hands settling on Joey’s hips as the music warbled on. “We should sing together sometime. A duet.”

“D—” Joey laughed. “You d-don’t even like country!”

“It’s sad as hell,” D agreed, mock grimacing. “Every song’s about dead dogs or lost wives or wrecked trucks.”

“It’s romantic!”

“No, it’s depressing.” D’s arms locked around Joey, pulling him in tight.

And Joey’s heart jumped. Everything stopped.

Because suddenly, D wasn’t teasing. Not really. His hands slipped down Joey’s back. His face was close. His eyes, darker now, flicked down to Joey’s lips, and everything got hot fast.

Joey barely had time to breathe before D kissed him.

Hard.

Joey moaned into it, hands fisting in D’s shirt, knees weak. He let D walk him backward until the backs of his legs hit the table, and then D was lifting him—effortless—and Joey was on the tabletop, legs wrapped tight around D’s waist.

“You want romantic?” D said, voice rough and low. “Ask me to sing Boyz II Men next time.”

Joey’s heart was hammering. He looked down at D’s lips, eyes heavy with heat. “Sing t-to me…”

D’s brows lifted. “Now?”

Joey licked his lips. “I bet you h-have an amazing voice…”

D just chuckled, voice deep in his chest. “Not tonight. Mood’s all wrong. Gotta wait for a good one.”

Joey pouted. “I h-hate waiting.”

“Me too.” D’s hands slid up Joey’s thighs. “But you’ll survive.”

And then he kissed him again.

The radio kept playing in the background—some sad old song about goodbye and sweet tea—but Joey didn’t care. Not anymore.

His mouth opened under D’s. His fingers tangled in the tight curls at the nape of D’s neck.

And D groaned like he couldn’t take it.

Their hips pressed together. Their breath tangled. Joey felt like he was melting, all his insides gone soft, his chest aching with love and heat and need.

“Darius…” he whimpered, gasping against D’s cheek, “I l-love you—”

D kissed his throat, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “I love you too, baby,” he whispered.

The words were like fire. Joey arched into him, clinging tighter.

Their food was forgotten, but the fire crackled on.

And in that tiny, broken-down cabin in the woods, surrounded by sadness songs and fish on sticks, they kissed like they’d never stop.

Like they’d survived hell just to get here.

And maybe they had.

Half an hour later, the fire had burned low, throwing soft shadows across the cabin walls. Outside, it was pitch black—no stars, no moon, just thick, endless forest pressing in on all sides.

Joey was curled up beside D on the dusty floor, legs tangled, their shoulders brushing. The slightly-burnt fish and beans had been salvaged just in time, and now they sat in the warmth of the fire, sharing bites with their fingers like a pair of lost boys playing house.

Joey giggled as he tore a flaky bit of charred fish from the stick. “It’s a l-l-little crispy…”

D gave him a sideways smirk. “You mean perfectly smoked.”

“I m-mean it tastes like… g-grilled cigarettes.”

“You’re still eating it.”

Joey grinned, licking his fingers. “Yeah. ‘Cause you c-cooked it.”

D gave him a lazy, smug shrug, like he was already half-asleep but still had time to flex.

After the food, they didn’t even talk much. Just drifted into a quiet calm. They didn’t have blankets, so they used each other. Joey tugged D close, arms around his middle, head tucked beneath his chin. D's body was warm and solid. Safe.

The fire was burning down to warm embers, casting a flickering orange glow across the cabin walls. Joey lay curled against D’s chest, but he wasn’t asleep. He couldn’t be—not with the way his brain kept looping through the same awful thought:

This is my fault.

His arm was slung across D’s stomach, but his fingers twitched anxiously in the fabric of D’s shirt. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashing lights. Red and blue. Guns. The dogs barking. The sick look on Dolly’s face.

He swallowed hard.

“D?” he whispered.

D didn’t open his eyes, but his voice was low and aware. “Yeah?”

Joey hesitated. Then, quietly: “I k-keep thinking… about the cops. About h-how they found us. I c-called Josh, and I—I thought maybe that’s what did it, but…”

His voice trailed off.

D gave a long exhale through his nose. “Joey…”

“I j-just don’t get it. I mean… Vinnie’s probably watching my f-family, so calling Josh was st-stupid. I know that. But—if someone intercepted the call, it would’ve b-been Vinnie’s guys. Right? N-not the f-freaking police.”

“You’re not wrong,” D murmured. He shifted a little, but didn’t push Joey off his chest. “Cops wouldn’t be tapping your brother’s phone. You’re not that famous.”

Joey gave a sad half-smile. “Y-yeah…”

D rubbed a hand along Joey’s back, slow and grounding. “Maybe Josh mentioned it to a friend. Or a girl. Maybe someone figured they’d get their name in the papers by tipping the cops off. Stranger things have happened.”

Joey frowned, whispering, “But I didn’t tell him w-where we were. I s-swear. And he didn’t even ask. I d-didn’t say a word about the farm or… or anything.”

D sighed again. “I know.”

“I j-just—” Joey’s voice cracked a little. “It d-doesn’t make sense. My f-family wouldn’t g-go to the cops. They…just don’t d-do stuff like that.”

D shifted again, and for the first time, looked at him.

“It would’ve gone to hell either way,” he said softly. “Bo made the call to the sheriff, remember? Even if no one else said a word, the second he got nervous, it was only a matter of time.”

Joey blinked. “Y-you think that’s what did it?”

“I think it was both. Probably. Layers of mess. Like always.”

Joey bit his lip and nodded, trying to believe it.

D’s hand cupped the back of his neck. “No more calls home, though, Joey. Promise me.”

Joey’s throat tightened. “I p-promise.”

“Good,” D murmured. “We’re close to South Carolina now. If we can keep a low profile a little longer, we can end this.”

Joey didn’t answer right away. He just pressed his face into D’s chest and let himself be held.

D’s hand slowed. “Go to sleep,” he whispered.

Joey nodded against him, heart still heavy. But slowly, gradually, he let his body relax. Let his eyes close. Let the questions float to the back of his mind.

They’d get answers eventually.

But for now—

He had warmth. A heartbeat under his ear. A promise that he wasn’t alone.

And that would have to be enough.