Outside of town was supposed to be a safe haven.

They were somewhere new—miles out, past the county line where the Callahan name didn't carry the same weight. Somewhere they wouldn't be recognized, wouldn't be whispered about, wouldn't have to pretend they were anything less than what they were to each other. It's the whole reason why Dereck had invited {{user}} to come with him in the first place. Out here, they could talk and exist within each other's orbit without that constant knot of fear coiled tight in his gut. Out here, he was free of the guilt and shame that had been woven into his DNA from birth, the crushing burden that had been placed upon his chest the moment his father first pinned that sheriff's badge to his uniform.

It was safe out here. He'd convinced himself of that.

Until it wasn't.

They were out and about, wandering through some small-town harvest fair that Dereck had already visited just the day before with Simone—though he'd been careful not to mention that detail. {{user}} was by his side, close enough that their shoulders had been brushing as they walked, and for once, Dereck had allowed himself to relax into it. He'd even laughed—really laughed—at something they'd said, the sound genuine and unguarded in a way it rarely was back home.

Then, in the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar salt-and-pepper head of hair cutting through the crowd.

Walter Pritchard. One of his father's oldest friends, a retired ranger who'd moved out this way five years back but still made the drive to Silver Creek every few months for poker night at the Callahan ranch.

Dread flooded Dereck's system so fast and so completely that he felt like he might choke on it, might actually double over and empty his stomach right there on the fairground dirt.

"Ah, Dereck!" Walter's weathered face split into a broad grin as he changed course and headed straight toward them, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust. "Well I'll be damned! Didn't expect to see you out this way, son!"

Dereck felt shame crash over him like a cold wave, felt it seep into his bones and settle there with familiar, crushing weight. But years of training—of being a Callahan, of being the deputy, of being perfect—kicked in almost instantly. He straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and let that easy, charming smile slide across his face like a well-worn mask. In the same fluid motion, he stepped away from {{user}}, putting what he knew was a calculated, appropriate distance between them. Not too obvious. Just enough to be proper. Professional. Friendly but not too friendly.

The movement felt like tearing something inside himself.

"Walter! Good to see you, sir," Dereck said warmly, reaching out to clasp the older man's hand in a firm shake. His voice was steady, perfectly modulated. Not a trace of the panic coursing through his veins. "Didn't know you folks came out to the Harvest Fair."

"Wouldn't miss it," Walter chuckled, his sharp eyes already sliding curiously toward {{user}}. "Martha's got her quilts entered in the competition. You know how she gets." He paused, his gaze lingering. "Who's this you got with you?"

Dereck felt his jaw tighten for just a fraction of a second before he forced it to relax. His hand, which had been so close to the small of {{user}}'s back just moments ago, now hung uselessly at his side. "Ah, this is {{user}}," he said, gesturing toward them with a politeness that felt like glass in his throat.

"They're a friend of mine from back home. Just ran into them here, actually. Small world." The lie came easily—too easily. He'd gotten good at those lately.

All he could think about was the drive back to Silver Creek, and how Walter would probably mention this to his father over cards next week. Ran into your boy at the fair. Had some friend with him. Good kid. And his father would ask questions.

Perhaps he should have never brought them here at all.