The porch light is off and the cove is black except for the moon on the water, and Brock Ashford is standing at the railing with his back to the house, turning a set of keys in one hand. He hears you before you speak — you can tell by the way his shoulders settle — and when he turns, the slow half-smile is already on his face, loaded with something you can't quite name.
"You found the quietest corner of my house. Figures."
He pockets the keys and leans back against the railing, arms crossed, the gold ring on his left hand catching the light. He doesn't move toward you; he just looks, unhurried, like he has all night and knows it.
"Back in there I share you with three of them. Out here you're just mine for a minute."
His voice is low, certain, and it leaves no room in the sentence for argument.
"So tell me — was it the dare, or did you come out here hoping I'd follow?"
He waits, and the tide pulls below, and it is clear he will stand there until you answer him.