5

I didn’t expect him to answer but he did.

“Someone who didn’t care whether I lived or died,” Damien said with his eyes still on the screen.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, like everything between us have weight now—grief, violence, the kind of trust you don’t admit out loud.

I studied him—how his jaw tensed when he concentrated, how his scars caught the light like half-forgotten memories.

“You ever think about leaving all of it behind?” I asked, my voice lower than I meant it to be.

He didn’t look at me. “Every day.”

We didn’t speak for a while after that. The video ended. The screen went black but neither of us moved to shut the laptop. We just sat there, the room humming with static and something more dangerous.

He finally turned towards me. “You trust your gut, right?”

“Yes.” I answered.

“What does it say about me?” He asked curious.

I hesitated, not because I didn’t know—but because I did.

“It says you’re not safe for me but you’re not the threat either.”

His mouth twitched at that. “Fair enough.”

He stood, slow and deliberate. “You need to rest. You haven’t slept.”

I laughed under my breath. “You think I can sleep after all this?”

“No,” he said. “But you should try anyway.”

He made his way to the door, his hand resting on the knob like he was waiting for me to stop him. I didn’t—at least not with words.

“Damien,” I said softly.

He looked back.

“You don’t have to watch over me.”

He tilted his head. “I know.”

And still, he didn’t leave, instead, he walked back, stood just close enough to blur the boundary between us.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

I didn’t even notice.

He reached for my hand—slow, like I was a deer and he didn’t want to spook me. His fingers brushed mine, calloused and warm, and I didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” I whispered.

“Neither do I.” He said.

“But it feels like it’s going to hurt.” I said with concern.

“It already does.” He replied.

I don’t remember who leaned in first, maybe it's both of us and it was inevitable but the kiss was different this time—less fire, more ache. Like we were tasting the parts of each other we haven’t dared to show yet.

He pulled away first, breathing unsteady. “Camille…”

“I know,” I said.

We didn’t take it further. Not yet. Instead, he stayed on the couch, guarding the door while I curled up under a blanket, pretending I could rest and for the first time in weeks, the nightmares didn’t win.

~

The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of rain.

Damien was still here—sitting in the chair by the window like a sentinel with his eyes on the street.

“You didn’t sleep?” I asked.

“Don’t need much of it,” he said without turning.

I got up slowly, stretching sore muscles and brushing the hair from my eyes. “Are you always like this?”

He finally looked at me. “Like what?”

“Tight and watchful.”

“It kept me alive,” he said. “Old habits.”

He handed me a mug with coffee, no sugar and no small talk from him.

“I booked a session,” I said after a beat.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Its a therapy, first one in over a year. Thought I’d try something reckless.”

He didn’t mock me neither did he ask questions, he just nodded like it makes sense.

“Good,” he said. “Talk to someone who doesn’t want to shoot you.”

I cracked a smile. “You assume my therapist’s not armed.”

“Yeah, I do" He replied.

I finished my coffee in silence while the rain tapped against the window like a reminder. This town never slept, it just shift shapes.

After Damien left, I drove through town with my eyes on everything—the missing posters that faded too fast, the boarded-up shops, the mural of a girl with sea-glass eyes on the side of the old lighthouse that always looked like she was watching me.

~

The therapist’s office was warm and filled with too many plants. A woman named Dr. Seraphina Crane sat across from me with her legs crossed, her eyes kind but sharp.

“You’ve seen death,” she said after five minutes. “Too much of it.”

“Is that obvious?” I asked.

“Yes, It’s in your posture.” She answered.

“Ex-cop,” I said. “from L.A.”

“I figured.” She said sharply.

“You see a lot of patients like me?” I asked.

She didn’t blink. “Only in Seabridge Bay.”

Something about the way she said it sent a chill down my spine.

~

The town was quiet in that strange, suffocating way—like a held breath before a scream.

I sat on the edge of the couch, stirring milk into my coffee just to keep my hands busy. The TV murmured in the background, low but insistent, like a voice you try not to hear. I wasn’t really listening… until I heard ....

“Authorities remain baffled by the recent murders plaguing Seabridge Bay. A tip, submitted anonymously last night suggested the suspect may have military or mafia ties. The individual was seen dragging a tarp into the woods outside Sundaze Inn. Described as tall, lean, with tactical movements…”

I froze. They didn’t say a name but they don't have to.

“The footage—though grainy—suggests the suspect is a man recently observed entering the life of a known former LAPD detective. Investigators are considering whether the killer is targeting anyone connected to the case... or if one of them may be complicit.”

A chill slid beneath my skin like icewater. I quickly mute the TV, sat perfectly still and stared at nothing.

Damien, tall, lean and moves like a soldier. Is that what they are implying? Or what I am afraid to admit?

The same boots in my yard.

The way he said, “If I am the killer, you wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

He didn't denial, just… honesty.

I didn’t hear the knock until it came again—two of it were soft and one is firm. That's Damien’s pattern of knocking.

I rose but hesitated at the door then opened it.

He stood in front of me in a black thermal shirt, toolbox in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other with a steady eyes that's calm.

“You didn’t answer your texts,” he said.

“I was… busy.” I replied. Though I didn't notice he sent a text.

His gaze swept over me like a scan. “Are you alright?”

I nodded, then hesitated. “The broadcast. Did you see it?”

“I did.” He replied, didn’t say more but his jaw was tight.

“Do you think it’s about you?” I asked again.