We keep walking, the hush of the waves and the lull of the night wrapping around us like a blanket. August's hand brushes mine again, but this time, he laces our fingers together. No words. Just warmth.
And I let him.
The wind picks up a little, tousling my hair, carrying the scent of salt and something else... something faint. Smoky. Metallic. Off.
I slow my steps, eyes narrowing slightly as I glance behind us. The canopy is a small silhouette now, just a glowing shape in the distance.
"What's wrong?" August asks, his voice low.
"Do you smell that?"
He pauses, sniffs the air once—and stiffens.
He smells it too.
That's when we hear it.
A sharp c***k—like a twig snapping, but louder. Closer. And followed by silence. Not the peaceful kind. The charged kind. The kind that makes your
