The rain finally pauses the next day, and the sudden silence feels almost unnatural after so many hours of relentless drumming against the roof.
Konnor announces he's making a grocery run—they're out of eggs, low on coffee, and Oscar has been threatening mutiny if someone doesn't procure fresh herbs.
"I need basil," Oscar calls from the kitchen. "Real basil, not the dried garbage in the spice rack. And thyme. And if you find decent tomatoes, I'll forgive you for the fish criticism last night."
Konnor takes the truck, and I watch from the window as the taillights disappear down the muddy road.
The cabin feels different immediately—smaller despite the absence of one person.
Or maybe it's that the air feels less charged without Konnor's intense observation cataloging my every breath.
Oscar cooks with what they have left, humming something low and bluesy while he works. Jake opens a bottle of whiskey and settles into the armchair by the fireplace.
I pour myself a glass of water and pretend I'm not acutely aware of the empty space Konnor left behind.
This is fine. This is normal. Three adults sharing a cabin during a storm.
The conversation flows easier without Konnor dissecting every word I say.
Oscar flirts openly now, testing my boundaries with compliments that skirt the edge of inappropriate.
"You know what I love about you, Kelly Bird?" He glances over his shoulder while stirring something that smells incredible. "You've got this whole mysterious-woman-with-secrets thing happening, and most people would find that exhausting, but I find it absolutely delicious."
"Most people would also find your ego exhausting," I reply, "but here we are."
"She wounds me." Oscar clutches his chest. "Jake, are you hearing this? She wounds me daily."
Jake is quieter than usual, but his gaze tracks me with an intensity that makes my breath catch every time I accidentally meet his eyes.
He watches the way I move through the kitchen, the way I tuck hair behind my ear, the way my fingers trace the rim of my glass.
He's not even trying to hide it anymore.
After dinner, Oscar puts on music. Something low and slow, with a bass line that vibrates through the floorboards.
He crosses the room and extends his hand toward me with theatrical flourish.
"Dance with me, mysterious tourist."
"I don't dance," I lie.
"Everyone dances." He wiggles his fingers. "You just need the right partner."
I let him pull me from my chair. I let his hands settle on my waist. I let my body sway against his while Jake watches from the couch, whiskey in hand, expression unreadable.
This is innocent—mostly.
Oscar's breath is warm against my ear when he murmurs, "You're trouble, Kelly Bird."
My spine melts against his chest.
The music pulses through us both, his heartbeat pressed against my shoulder blade, and my body answers eagerly—hips swaying deeper into his rhythm, fingers finding his wrists where they rest on my waist.
The exhaustion of being careful for so long cracks open inside me, spilling warmth through my limbs like honey.
The song ends, and Oscar spins me—a quick, playful turn that sends me stumbling toward Jake.
I catch myself against his chest, palms flat against solid muscle, and his hands come up to steady me.
They don't drop.
"Graceful," Jake observes, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"I was a ballerina in another life." I'm breathless, and not from the spin. "Tragically, that life ended thirty seconds ago."
"Shame. I would've paid to see the tutu."
"You couldn't afford my tutu, Sanders."
Oscar moves closer behind me, his chest against my back, his hands finding my hips.
"I don't know, Jake's pretty liquid. Fire captains do alright." His breath is warm against my ear. "Though personally, I've always preferred what's underneath the tutu."
I should have a comeback for that. I definitely should.
But Oscar's thumbs are tracing slow circles on my hipbones and Jake's gaze has dropped to my mouth and my brain has officially filed for early retirement.
"You two rehearse this?" I manage. "The whole good-cop-handsy-cop routine?"
Jake's thumb traces my jawline, tilting my face up. "We're improvising."
"It's terrifying." The word comes out breathier than intended.
"You should see what we do with an actual plan," Oscar murmurs against my neck.
I'm sandwiched between them now—Jake in front, Oscar behind—and every rational thought evacuates my brain like passengers fleeing a sinking ship.
Jake's steel-gray eyes have darkened to something closer to storm clouds, and Oscar's hands are sliding higher to my breast, and I can feel both of their heartbeats against my body.
"This is a terrible idea," I whisper into Jake's lips, close enough that speaking feels like kissing.
"Probably."
"The worst."
"Undoubtedly," Oscar agrees from behind me, his mouth brushing the curve of my shoulder.
"This is the part where I'm supposed to be smart about this." I can hear how thin my voice has become, how the desire has eaten through every defense I've constructed.
Jake's hand slides into my hair, tilting my face up toward his. "And?"
"And I've been smart my whole life." My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. "It's exhausting and I'm taking the night off."
Jake kisses me, and the kiss is consuming. His mouth moves against mine with a certainty that makes my knees buckle, his hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back.
I gasp into his mouth, and behind me, Oscar's teeth graze my shoulder, his hands sliding beneath the hem of my shirt, palms hot against my bare stomach.
More. I want more.
Jake's mouth moves to my throat. Oscar spins me to face him and claims my lips while Jake's hands explore the curve of my waist from behind.
I've never felt like this—desired from multiple directions, overwhelmed in the best possible way. Every nerve ending is alive. Every touch amplifies the next.
Oscar groans against my mouth. Jake's stubble scrapes my neck. I arch between them, shameless and desperate and—
The front door opens.
I freeze. Oscar's hands still on my ribs. Jake goes rigid behind me.
Konnor stands in the doorway, grocery bags in one hand, a magazine in the other.
His dark eyes sweep over the scene—my swollen lips, my shirt rucked up, the way I'm pressed between his two best friends.
For a long moment, no one speaks. The silence stretches like a held breath. Then Konnor's gaze locks onto mine. When he speaks, his voice is terrifyingly calm.
"Care to explain, Kelly Goodwin?"
The name hits me like a bucket of cold water poured directly over my head. My real name. My actual name. The one I never told any of them.
Oscar's hands drop. Jake steps back. I feel the blood drain from my face, leaving me hollow and exposed.
Konnor tosses the magazine onto the kitchen counter. It slides across the surface and stops, my own face staring up at me from the glossy cover.
I recognize the photo—a press shot from last year's shareholder meeting, hair blown out, smile practiced, pearls at my throat like armor.
The headline screams in bold red letters: GOODWIN HEIRESS VANISHES AMID BABYTRAP SCANDAL—WHERE IS KELLY NOW?
"Funny thing about small-town grocery stores," Konnor says, setting down the bags. "Limited selection. Excellent magazine racks." He crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. "Imagine my surprise when I'm reaching for coffee and your face is staring at me between the tabloids and the fishing guides."
I open my mouth to explain, but nothing comes out. Jake and Oscar are staring at me like they've never seen me before.
Because they haven't.
And as Konnor's eyes drop to my stomach—just for a second—I realize he's not just asking about my name.
"Well?" Konnor's voice is surgical. "Who exactly have we invited into our house, gentlemen?"
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