I dressed deliberately.
Not like I was going on a date, I told myself. Just like I wanted to feel like my body belonged to me again.
Jeans first. Dark, snug, the pair that hugged the curve of my thighs and cinched at my waist just right. A tank top, soft and low-cut, the neckline dipping just enough that someone might look twice without being able to justify staring. I tugged on a cardigan, loose and cozy, but left it unbuttoned so the line of my collarbone and the hint of my chest stayed visible.
I told myself it was for me. I wanted to feel pretty. Solid. Like more than a trauma wrapped in borrowed clothes.
But some shameless little part of me thought: let him look.
If he wanted to sit in the dark and watch, let him squirm while I walked out the door like I didn’t know he was there. Let him replay what I said last night every time his gaze caught on the dip of my neckline or the shape of my hips.
I moved into the kitchen, bare feet whispering over the worn hardwood. The radiator thumped once as it woke up. I filled the kettle, made coffee, letting the familiar routine settle my nerves. Scoop, pour, wait. The smell of cheap grounds blooming in the air, like a memory of normal life.
I carried my mug to the window.
In the morning light, I should’ve been able to see him if he was up there. The rooftop across the street looked small and bare from this angle, a smudge of concrete and a low wall. If he wascrouched down, I wouldn’t see him. If he was standing, he’d still be just a shape.
It looked empty.
My heartbeat did something stupid anyway: a little leap, a flutter, as if he might materialize if I stared hard enough.
“Good morning,” I whispered, more to the glass and the steam rising from my mug than to anything else.
The words fogged the pane for a second and then vanished.
I should’ve headed straight to the café. That was the plan. That was always the plan. Same routine, same rhythm. Predictable. Safe. That’s what Halo would expect. That’s what he wanted me to do: be easy to guard, easy to track, easy to protect.
I didn’t want to feel easy today. I didn’t want to feel predictable, not for him and not for myself.
I dug my phone out of my cardigan pocket and thumbed through my apps until I found the community center’s page.
The old painting class I used to take still ran once a week on Thursdays. I’d forgotten about it, the way you forget about whole parts of yourself when life gets small and scary. The listing was still there, with the same cheerful, outdated clipart and an instructor name I recognized.
Today was Thursday.
I watched the little digital calendar square blink at me for a few seconds.
Fuck it.
I closed my phone before I could talk myself out of it and grabbed my bag from the hook by the door. I tossed in my sketchbook on impulse, even though I hadn’t touched it in months, maybe longer. The edges of the pages were frayed from being carried around and never opened.
There was a route I could take that wouldn’t go past the café – through the alley, behind the laundromat two blocks down, twisting around the community park where the playgroundalways squeaked, then looping under the overpass and into the east side, where the streets got narrower and older and the community center sat squatting between a thrift store and a payday loan office.
It would take longer, and it would pull me off my usual path.
Would he follow me if I deviated? Would he notice immediately and adjust, cutting across rooftops, dropping down side streets like some pissed-off, heavily armed guardian angel? Would I lose him for an hour? Would he be furious with me for making him work harder?
Did I want him to be furious?
I didn’t answer any of those questions. Not honestly. Not to myself.
Instead, I slid my sunglasses on, even though the sun was still weak and low, more brightness than actual warmth. Little armor pieces. Mug goes in the sink. Lock turns. Bag strap settles over my shoulder.
I glanced once more at the rooftop across the street.
“If you’re there,” I murmured, so quietly I barely heard myself, “keep up.”
Then I opened the door.
