The sarcasm lands harder than I intend. The room goes quiet.
The men shift uncomfortably. One of them clears his throat. “Sorry, man. We didn’t—”
“Didn’t mean to pry,” another adds. “Thank you for your service.”
They leave quickly after that, but the air still feels heavy even after they’re gone. I stand there for a moment longer than necessary, breathing through the familiar mix of irritation and embarrassment.
I leave the gym with my shoulders tight and my teeth clenched, the air outside biting colder than it should. I tell myself it shouldn’t matter. I’ve had worse stares. Louder questions. Men who didn’t bother to soften their curiosity with politeness or gratitude. Still, something about it sticks this time, scraping against the inside of my chest long after I’ve put distance between myself and the locker room.
It’s not about the scars themselves… It’s the reminder of what they look like to other people.
I get back in my car and head straight for Georgia’s place, like my body already knows where it needs to be before my mind catches up.
The moment I unlock her door and step inside, the tension eases a fraction. Her apartment has that quiet, held feeling, like it’s waiting for her to come back and fill it up again. I breathe in without thinking, letting the familiar scent ground me. Clean cotton. Something faintly citrus. Her.
I head to the kitchen and take down the groceries that I’d put away earlier, setting them on the counter. I didn’t have an idea of what I wanted to cook when I was shopping, but I’ve decided now to make spaghetti. I’ve made it once before, and I could tell she loved it when she went for seconds.
At first, I’m distracted. My knife hits the cutting board a little too hard. I nearly scorch the garlic because my thoughts drift back to the incident at the gym…to the way that guy’s eyes widened, the half-second of shock before curiosity took over. The moment keeps replaying in my head like it’s still happening.
Pausing, I close my eyes, forcing myself back to the present.
I imagine Georgia coming home instead; the way she kicks her shoes off without looking, the soft sigh she lets out when she drops her bag. The way she wanders into the kitchen like she’s not expecting anything and then freezes when she sees the food waiting for her.
That thought steadies me.
I slow down. Stir more carefully. Taste, adjust, breathe. By the time I’m done, the food smells good enough that I am even tempted to sit and eat it. I plate it, cover it, and leave it on the counter where she’ll see it right away. I add a note—not one of my usual letters, just a small reassurance in my own shorthand.
I lean back against the counter afterward, rubbing a hand over my face.
This is the dangerous part.
Not the cameras. Not the stalking. Not even the nights in the dark. It’s this quiet wanting… The urge to stay. To be here when she gets home. To hear her voice without wires and speakers between us. To see her smile instead of imagining it.
With that want comes the fear.
The dark protects. It protects her from seeing the way people look at me when they realize what happened. Protects me from her comparing the man I am now to the one I used to be…the one she never knew but might still mourn for what could have been.
She’s touched my scars. Kissed them. But that was blind trust, not sight. I don’t know if that kindness survives light.
Losing her feels unthinkable. Worse than the idea of staying hidden. Worse than the ache of restraint.
I check the time and straighten, the familiar vigilance sliding back into place. She’ll be leaving work soon. I can’t be here when she gets back. Not yet.
I do one last walk through the apartment, making sure nothing’s out of place, nothing that might make her feel unsettled. Then I let myself out quietly, locking the door behind me like I was never there at all.
Then I head straight to her office building. I stand at a blind spot, waiting.
Watching.
Chapter Seven
Georgia
Something is off with Zane tonight. I feel it almost immediately, the moment his voice comes through the speakers. It’s lower than usual, clipped at the edges. He answers when I speak, but just barely. One word. Two, if I’m lucky. His voice lacks that teasing warmth…that focused calmness that makes me feel like I’m the only thing in his world.
It unsettles me more than I want to admit. I keep talking anyway, filling the silence with details about my day, about a client call that ran too long, about how Mick’s plants are still alive somehow, though I don’t sound very convincing even to myself. Normally, he’d latch onto something, ask questions or make a comment that shows he’s really listening.
Tonight though, it feels like my words are hitting a wall and falling to the floor.
