Page 80 of False Catch

I grab basics. Nothing fancy—bread, eggs, bacon, fruit, coffee. Real food, not the energy bars and coffee she's been surviving on. At the last second, I add a bottle of bourbon. We might need it.

When I get back, she's dozed off against the window. The sight does something to my chest. She trusts me enough to sleep in public. Trusts that I can keep her safe no matter how far away I am.

Ten more minutes down a winding road, and I pull up to the cabin. It's nothing special—just a rental I found on an app as soon as I realized someone needed to intervene. Basic A-frame with a deck overlooking woods. Far enough from campus that no one will think to look for us.

"Reese." I touch her shoulder gently. "We're here."

She jolts awake, immediately alert. She rubs her eyes as she looks around the wooded area. "Where's here?"

"Somewhere that isn't in the middle of whatever is happening back at campus."

She takes in the cabin, the surrounding woods, the complete absence of anything rowing-related. "You planned this."

"Someone had to."

Inside, it's exactly what the photos showed. Simple furniture, stone fireplace, basic kitchen. Clean and quiet.

"Why?" she asks, setting down the bag Zane packed.

"Because you haven't eaten a real meal in three days. Because you've been trying to sleep in a dorm full of Omegas who can sense your distress. Because if we go to that regatta Saturday with the team in this state, we're done."

"Running away won't fix—"

"We're not running." I start unpacking groceries with efficient movements. "We're taking a calculated pause. There's a difference."

She watches me move around the kitchen, something shifting in her expression. "You're giving me orders."

"Someone needs to."

"I don't take orders from—"

I turn and pin her with a look that stops her mid-sentence. "You do tonight."

The air between us shifts. This isn't sweet, protective Bo. This is the enforcer who keeps eight Alpha rowers in line. The one who knows when someone needs to stop thinking and just be.

"Shower," I tell her. "There's probably hot water. Then food. Then sleep."

"Bo—"

"That wasn't a request, Callahan."

She holds my gaze for a long moment, and I see the exact second she decides to let go. The rigid control she's been maintaining cracks, and underneath is exhaustion so profound it breaks me open right alongside her.

"Fine," she says, but it's not her usual deflection. It's surrender.

While she showers, I start on food. Nothing complicated—eggs scrambled with cheese, floppy bacon cooked just enough to render the fat like she orders at The Griddle, toast with real butter. The kinds of things that remind a body it's alive.

She emerges in sleep shorts and one of the guys’ Sable Ridge hoodies, probably Zane’s judging by the scent, hair damp and curling around her shoulders. Without the cox box, without the rigid posture, she looks impossibly young.

"Eat," I tell her, pushing a plate across the counter.

She takes a bite and makes a sound that goes straight to my groin. "Oh god, actual food."

"When did you last eat something that wasn't from a vending machine?"

She has to think about it. "Tuesday?"

"Christ, Reese."