“Did my father send you?”
He drew back slightly, eyes narrowing as he searched mine. Silence stretched, measuring how serious I was.
“Sorry,” I said. The edge in my tone lingered. “That sounded harsh. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” he cut in, soft. “Your father just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”
I pointed toward the cloakroom and started walking, papers stacked in my arms. He fell into step.
“Are you interested in ancient history?” I asked over my shoulder.
“Not really. But you never stop learning. Want me to carry something?”
“Gladly.” I handed him the documents, grabbed my backpack, and together we left the museum.
Evening settled over the city: muted bustle, slow light. I stole a glance at him—quick, fleeting—enough to feel the weight of his presence. Quiet. Unassuming. His gaze never strayed, posture steady, movements so controlled they almost disappeared into the crowd. You could pass him without ever noticing him, and still I wondered how anyone could miss him.
Mythoughts slid to Damian. Where was he now? Did he think of me? Miss me? Or had he already found someone else? The ache flared. Every night I wrote him a message, then left it unsent—tucked into my notes. I couldn’t cut him out. He was in my soul, in my blood. I knew a day would come when I’d try to find him again.
“I can make it home alone, Tristan. You don’t have to walk me. Otherwise, it feels like my father is having me watched.”
“Your father asked me to see you home on days when there are disturbances in the city. He has enemies here, Daisy. This isn’t about control—it’s protection. So yes, I’ll make sure you get home safely.”
I stopped, exhaling hard. “Where exactly do you see disturbances?” I gestured at the peaceful city, gold with the setting sun.
“They’re not the kind you can point to. Gang members where they shouldn’t be. Signals you can’t see with the naked eye. So I’ll walk you—whether you want me to or not.”
At the restaurant, he’d been barely present—quiet, withdrawn. Now he spoke. Not much. Not personal. Just enough. The calm, measured way he chose what to say—never more than necessary—felt more honest than any smile.
“You’re persistent, you know that?” I said with a small smile.
Fifteen minutes later, we reached my house.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“You’ve got a nice place,” he said, glancing around.
“I hardly have any things yet. Most of my stuff is still in Cold Spring. What do you want? Soda, Coke, alcohol?”
“A Coke.”
“So—how did you meet my father?” I asked, handing him the can.
Tristan sat on the couch, legs spread, leaning back. “Long story. My parents were old friends of his. We knew each other when I was a kid. After they died, Franco practically adopted me.”
I frowned. “Their names?”
“Carlos and Amelia Bjanares.”
My mouth fell open. “You’re the child of the Bjanares?”
He nodded, took a drink.
“I remember them. But I never saw you.”
“They kept me away from anything tied to the Mafia.”
“How did they die? My father must’ve told me once, but I can’t recall.”
