Chapter 25: Madeline
I could punch him.
Actually, no — I could launch a full coffee mug across this table and not feel bad about it. He’d probably catch it midair with one hand and not spill a drop, just to be smug about it.
But still.
The urge is there.
I’ve never actually wanted to punch someone before. Not truly. Not with that itchy kind of anger that burns behind your ribs and makes your hands twitch just to do something with it.
But Reid? Reid Anderson? I could swing.
He's sitting across from me like he owns the entire diner, the town, the sea, and probably time itself. He’s leaned back in the booth, legs spread wide, taking up space with casual authority. His jacket’s still on, but unzipped — thick material clinging to his arms, wet at the seams. And even through the layers, you can tell: he’s cut from stone. The kind of build that looks like it was made to carry things no one else can.
His hair is damp — slicked messily back, dripping every so often onto the collar of his shirt. Salt clings to his skin just below his jaw, crusted faintly white like a stamp of ownership from the ocean itself.
Like even the sea didn’t want to let go of him.
He’s watching me now.
Not with interest, not even with annoyance — but something worse. Amusement. Like this whole conversation is some game and he’s already five moves ahead.
I want to hit him and get closer at the same time, and that is the most irritating combination of emotions I’ve ever had in my life.
Instead, I look down at the pages in front of me — the research data from today’s outing. I hadn’t expected to be impressed. I am.
It’s… solid. Organized. Clear. Good samples, accurate GPS logs, notes that are sharp, to the point. They knew exactly what to collect, how to track, what to look for. There’s even early notes on a re-sighted whale from a previous year — the kind of detail I’d hoped to work with when I accepted this job.
I press my lips together, trying not to show that I’m surprised. That he did this.
That he knows what he’s doing.
Of course he does.
I glance at the time.
“It’s already past three,” I mutter, scanning the data again. “There’s a lot here. I don’t think I can get through all this by morning.”
Reid doesn’t even blink. “If you want to get on the water, you will.”
Just like that. Like if I don’t, it’s my fault. Like motivation alone will bend time and make me superhuman.
I lift my eyes slowly. “You’ve clearly got a good system. Charlie. Sloane. Finn. Liam. You. You know what you’re doing. Why even bring me out here if I’m just going to sit in a diner all day?”
He leans forward.
I don’t notice how close he is until the scent of him hits — salt, leather, a faint trace of something warmer. His elbows land on the table, and the world shrinks. Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just… tightens. Like he pulled the whole atmosphere forward with him.
I can feel the change in the air — charged, unsteady. He’s not even touching me, and still, it’s like the heat of him is enough to crowd the whole booth.
His voice, when it comes, is low. A slow drawl that feels like a challenge.
“Are you thinking of walking away from me?” he asks.
It’s not a threat. It’s not a question. It’s some awful third thing that slides under my skin and coils there.
My throat goes dry. I blink.
His eyes are dark, unreadable — but locked on mine like he’s searching for something. A reaction. An excuse. A reason to write me off.
But maybe… just maybe… he doesn’t want one.
I swallow and somehow, somehow, find the courage to say what is probably the dumbest thing I've ever said.
“It’ll take a lot more than a dickhead boss to make me run.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile — I don’t think this man knows how to smile — but the corner lifts like he’s fighting it. A crack in the mask.
And then he leans back again, slow. A full, unapologetic sweep of his gaze runs over me. And I feel it like it’s touching me — not lecherous, not even inappropriate, but methodical. Like he’s trying to figure out what I am. What I’ll do. What it is about me that doesn’t make sense to him.
And suddenly I feel it — the raw exposure. Like he’s looking straight through the façade I’ve carefully built since stepping foot here. Like he sees I’m scared. Angry. Trying.
I hate that he can see that.
I hate that I care.
I clear my throat and look down again. Try to refocus. Try to be the person I was before he walked in here and turned the oxygen to glass.
Then, stupidly, my mind flashes back to that night.
The red light.
The soft, lazy smirk from the car.
His voice: “There’s no one here.”
Does he even remember?
Does he recognize me from that night and pretends it didn't happen?
I glance up, just about to ask—
But he’s already shaking his head, eyes dragging across my face one last time before he mutters it like an afterthought:
“You’re trouble.”
And then he’s gone.
Just like that.
The bell above the door rings softly. The draft from it still swirls around me like he left it on purpose. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
Trouble?
If anyone’s trouble here, it’s him.
And I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that.