Page 45 of Flint’s Strike

I unroll the exercise mat and lay it out on the floor. The phone goes face down on the dresser. Otherwise, I’ll scroll through the text messages again and again.

I’m glad you sent this.

Five words that landed in a place I thought I’d locked away forever.

Wrapping my fingers around the pull-up bar, I start working my arms. One set. Two. Three. The burn helps me focus. But once I let my arms drop to my sides, I hear her voice in my head.

“Dinner isn’t even the issue. It’s what may—or may not—happen after.”

After.

I wanted there to be an after. Dammit, I still do. But if there’s an after, she’ll see what fire does to a body. My body.

And then she’ll ask me what happened.

Fuck.

Wiping the sweat from my hands, I start a fourth set. My biceps scream at me, but I can’t stop. Not until my fingers slip clean off the bar and my feet hit the floor with enough force, I feel it in my jaw.

I should stop. Eat. Finish the damn blanket.

But I know if I do, I’ll start thinking. Even with This Old House on as background noise, I’ll spend the whole night with her voice in my head. Not the professional one from earlier today. Or the seductive one as she agreed to dinner.

The horrified tone of Parker Elmore realizing exactly what I keep hidden under long sleeved shirts even in the heat of the summer.

“Oh my God, Eliot. What happened?”

Or worse. She’ll be so disgusted, she won’t want to touch me.

Either way, it’ll be the end of whatever we might’ve been building.

I grab a set of heavy dumbbells, swing them up to my shoulders, and start pressing. Twelve reps. Grab a bottle of water.

“Shit, Eliot. How did this happen?”

Another twelve reps. My shirt clings to my back, dragging over the old scars. The sensation’s muted. Not numb, but wrong.

“You’re…that’s…how?”

I don’t stop between the second and third set. Don’t care about the pull of the t-shirt, the sweat dripping into my eyes.

If she asks, the night’s over. We’re over. Because my only options are to shut her down—and I don’t think Parker stands for anyone shutting her down—or tell her everything.

And what woman would want to be with someone who let a twenty-two-year-old kid die on his watch?

This was a mistake. All of it. Coffee. Driving her home from Urgent Care. Showing up at the Ranger station today.

Asking her out for dinner.

Shoulders burning, I give the dumbbells a rest. My body doesn’t get the same reprieve.

Pushups are a bad fucking idea. They force me to engage muscles buried under too much scar tissue to behave properly. But this is my penance. Zack isn’t here to feel pain. I have to feel it for both of us.

Ten. Twenty.

Stop.

No.