I step back too fast. He turns away faster.
"Tomorrow we establish a routine," he says. Giving me space.
"Goodnight, Diesel."
He grunts. Doesn't look up from the sink.
I retreat to the bedroom and close the door behind me.
For a moment, everything is still. The cottage settles around me—wood creaking, pipes ticking. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
My hand hovers over the lock.
I think about what's on the other side of this door. An orc. A stranger who went through my bag without permission but changed my sheets first. Who noticed I was trembling and made me eat. Who went still as death at a sound outside and turned into something I don't have words for.
I keep seeing my hand disappearing under his. How easy it would be for him to break me. How careful he was not to.
Deer,he said.
I don't believe him.
Through the thin walls, I hear him moving. Not settling onto the couch—moving. The soft creak of floorboards. A window being checked. Another. The back door opening, closing. His footsteps circling the cottage, then returning.
He's checking the perimeter. At midnight. After telling me it was just a deer.
The part of me that's been screaming for weeks goes quiet.
But a new voice takes its place. Quieter. Colder.
What is he expecting?
I don't turn the lock.
I lie down in the dark and listen to him pace.
Chapter Three
Diesel
The nightmares start around two.
Not one long terror—she cycles through them. I hear her breathing fracture, the whimper, the ragged sounds of someone trying to run. Then silence. Then it starts again. Over and over, her body throwing her back into whatever she's trying to escape.
I'm not asleep. Haven't managed to shut my brain off since I stretched out on this couch that's a foot too short for me. My feet hang off the end. My spine hasn't unclenched in hours. But it's not the discomfort keeping me awake.
It's the sound of her through the wall.
The first time, I sit up before I realize I'm moving. My hand is on the bedroom door before I stop myself.
The wood is cold under my palm. I can hear her—gasping breaths, sheets tangling as she fights something that isn't there. I should open this door. Wake her up. Do—
Not yours.
She's not mine to comfort. I'm the lock on the door, not the arms that make her feel safe.
I press my palm flat against the wood. Listen to her fight through it alone.
It passes. Her breathing evens out. I go back to the couch.
