Page 91 of When the Smoke Clears

Gabe leans back in his chair, expression thoughtful and grim. “He’s right, though. It does explain a lot.”

“So, you think he’s right about Nathaniel and Elizabeth knowing?”

“I guarantee Elizabeth knows,” Gabe says without hesitation. “She’s the one who had the affair. As for Nathaniel—yeah, I think he found out at some point. Maybe not right away. But now? He knows. And he’s the kind of prideful son of a bitch who would rather choke on the truth than let anyone see him bleed.”

I chew the inside of my cheek, head tilted.

“What?” Gabe asks.

“It’s just…Nathaniel was so strange about giving blood. And he was weirdly insistent on getting Luke out of the hospital as fast as possible.” I bite my thumbnail, replaying the moments in my mind. “At first, I thought it was because he was worried as a father. But now? It feels like he was worried the secret might come out.”

“Probably,” Gabe says, tossing a pen onto the table with a sharp clack. “He cares more about how the town sees him than about the actual damage he does. And if Luke finds out he’s not his biological father from some lab result rather than from him…”

He shakes his head. “That’s a hit to his ego he’d never risk.”

“What do you think Luke should do?” I ask.

Gabe’s voice goes steady, almost cold. “I only know what I’d do.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’d find out why they lied to me for twenty-nine years.”

He pushes away from the table and strides outside, letting the front door slam behind him.

The cabin falls quiet.

I rinse out a mug and make tea I know Luke probably won’t drink, but I need to do something with my hands. Chamomile, because it’s all I can find, and because somehow it feels gentler than coffee.

Steam curls into my face as I walk down the hall. I pause outside his door, heart pounding.

I knock softly. “Luke? I brought you something.”

There’s the faintest rustle inside—fabric shifting, a held breath—but no answer. He’s awake. He’s choosing silence.

The tea cools against my palms. I stand there for another few seconds, feeling stupid and intrusive and helpless, then finally set the mug on the floor with a quiet clink and retreat.

By the time he comes out, the light has shifted to late afternoon gray. His hair is mussed like he’s dragged his fingers through it a hundred times. He moves through the kitchen carefully, like he doesn’t want to disturb anything, including me.

He fills a glass with water, shoulders slightly hunched.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice soft.

He nods once, eyes on the sink. “Thanks for earlier.”

Thanks. Like I helped him carry groceries.

I step closer, slow and cautious, like he’s a skittish animal that might bolt if I move too fast. “Luke, talk to me.”

He pauses mid-swallow. “I’m fine.”

The words are too quick, too sharp. His jaw tightens like he hears it too and hates it, but still doesn’t look at me.

“You don’t seem fine,” I whisper.

“I just need to think.” He sets the glass down, fingers tapping once against the counter before retreating. “It’s not something you can fix, Isla.”

His honesty lands like a stone. Not cruel. Just true.