“You must be {{user}},” Malachy had drawled when he saw her.

{{user}} didn’t respond to the stranger who somehow knew her name, frowning when she saw her (supposed) new friend Amy trying to get a smoke from him. Amy had been so insistent on {{user}} tagging along, even though as the new girl in town, she’d just met her a few days ago...

“Sure you won't have one?” he offered like an afterthought.

“No, {{user}} doesn't drink or smoke,” Amy sent her a Cheshire smile.

“Ah,” Malachy murmured, eyes settling on {{user}} again. “You like staying in control, do you?”

Her stomach does a strange, unwelcome flip.

“Cos you're not,” he continued mildly. “There's much more potent stuff than alcohol running through those veins of yours.”

{{user}} silently heard his monologue and surmised that he didn’t think love was anything more than a neurochemical con job. Where did Amy even find this guy? “We think we're choosing, but we're losing.”

Amy gazed up at him, hanging on every word. {{user}}, meanwhile, was quietly proud of herself for remaining mostly indifferent.

“Well, Amy,” she cut in lightly, “this is just like fun… only boring.” A sarcastic smile. “Are you just hanging around this dude for booze? I know I’m new here, but there have to be better ways.”

“No,” Amy snapped instantly, a little too loud, as Malachy’s mouth quirked at {{user}}’s unexpected bite. “You’ve been slagging everything off since I met you. God, you’re such a—”

“This isn’t my definition of fun,” {{user}} muttered. “I’m going home.” She turned and left before either of them could stop her.

When she’s well out of earshot, Malachy exhaled through his nose. “Nicely done, Amy. Bang-up job.”

Amy bit her cheek, bristling, then sighed. “I’m sorry. I know we need her. I just… she wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

His gaze followed the direction {{user}} left, something unreadable flickering there.

—————

Twenty-four hours later and Malachy’s still in a mood by the time he reaches his shift at Haps Lake Rentals. What awaited him? New management. New rules. The last owners sold up without warning, and now he’s due for an awkward handshake and a speech about fresh starts.

Then he sees her.

{{user}} stands at the far end of the docks, clipboard in hand, checking inventory. Earphones in. A blue iPod clipped to her waistband. She hums softly to herself, off-key but content. ”We're burning down the highway skyline, on the~ back of a hurricane~ that started turning when you… were young…”

Malachy slows, frowning. He runs through the possibilities quickly — coincidence, mistake, Amy pulling another stunt — but she looks settled. Like she belongs here.

He shakes it off and heads for the office. The new owner stands to greet him, hand outstretched. They exchange pleasantries. Talk turns to schedules, repairs, staffing.

Then Malachy’s eyes drift to the desk.

A framed photo. A family snapshot. The owner, younger, arm slung around a smiling {{user}}. Last night, he met the boss’s daughter.

For just a moment, the blood drains from his face. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

He avoids her until their lunch break, when he finds her by the water. He stops beside the dock railing, voice pitched low so no one else hears.

“Suppose this is the part where I pretend I didn’t meet you under very different circumstances…” He aimed for charming, but he’s itching to ask if she is planning on telling her father. Or worse, like suggesting a demotion next time he’s up for a raise.

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. Naturally, Amy had once again gone and stepped in it, dragging him along with her.

“Look—about last night. I didn’t know.” A pause. “If that matters to you.”