I brace one hand against the tile and tilt my head forward, letting the water soak my hair and run down my back. My body remembers Kiren on its own. The way his breath changed when I touched his chest. The way his control slipped in increments rather than all at once. That detail stays with me because it tells me more about him than anything he said.
I shut the water off and reach for a towel, wrapping it around myself out of habit. I won’t spiral. I won’t romanticize. I won’t pretend that one night means more than it does.
I dress quickly, pulling on scrubs and tying my hair back into a braided bun that holds better during long shifts. My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory guiding each step. Deodorant. Toothpaste. Coffee mug set beneath the machine.The familiar whir as it brews calms my nerves more than the caffeine does.
Kiren drifts through my thoughts anyway. I don’t frame him as a mistake because that feels dishonest. I also don’t frame him as a beginning because that feels reckless. What we shared existed in a narrow space carved out by tension, shared heat, and exhaustion.. It doesn’t require analysis this early in the morning.
I finish my coffee and rinse the mug immediately, placing it upside down on the drying mat. Keys go into my bag. Phone in the side pocket. ID clipped where I can reach it without looking. I pause at the door, one hand on the lock, and take a moment to scan the apartment the way I always do. Everything looks intact. It should reassure me, but it doesn’t.
I lock the door and step into the hallway, the sound echoing softly as the deadbolt slides into place. The corridor smells faintly of cleaning solution and fresh paint. The elevator arrives with a muted chime. I step inside alone and press the button for the ground level.
As the doors slide shut, unease arrives without warning. It’s not fear. It’s awareness. The same sensation that creeps in when a patient’s condition is about to change, before the monitor reflects it. I straighten slightly, my shoulders tightening under my coat, and listen past the elevator’s low murmur. Nothing sounds wrong.
The doors open to the ground level, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. My footsteps echo against the concrete as Iwalk toward my car, my bag bumping lightly against my hip. I unlock the door and slide inside, placing the bag on the passenger seat and adjusting the mirror out of habit. My reflection looks composed, calm, and almost convincing.
I start the engine. The feeling follows me out of the garage and into the street, clinging to the back of my thoughts like static. I check my mirrors more than usual, alternating between them and the road ahead. Traffic is light. The sky is beginning to lighten as dawn approaches.
At the first intersection, I glance into my rearview mirror again. A black SUV sits two cars back, idling with the rest of us at the light. My grip on the steering wheel tightens. Plenty of people drive black SUVs, and I tell myself it means nothing.
The light changes, and I pull forward, accelerating at a normal pace. The SUV follows, keeping a consistent distance. I turn onto a side street. So does the SUV.
I remind myself that people share routes and coincidence doesn’t equal a threat. Still, my shoulders tense, my spine straightening as I check my mirrors again. The SUV is still there.
I make another turn, then another, taking a route I wouldn’t normally choose at this hour. The neighborhood grows quieter, houses spaced farther apart, and the streetlights blink as if undecided about staying on. My pulse beats harder against my ribs, my breath shallow enough that I have to consciously deepen it.
I glance over my shoulder as I pull up to a stop sign, twisting in my seat just enough to get a better look. The SUV idles behind me, its dark windows reflecting the pale morning light. There are no visible markings or flashing headlights. Nothing overtly threatening.
I pull forward again, my heart racing. This is ridiculous, I tell myself. You’re overtired. You’re projecting. You’re letting last night bleed into today in ways it doesn’t deserve.
Enough, Rowan, I tell myself.
At the next stretch of road, the SUV signals and turns off, disappearing down a side street lined with bare trees and quaint houses. Relief hits me fast and hard, a rush that makes my hands tremble before I can stop it.
I exhale deeply and feel the tension ease from my shoulders. My heart rate slows in stages as my body catches up. I chastise myself for letting my imagination run ahead of reason, allowing my nerves to masquerade as instinct.
The road ahead opens up, leading back toward my usual route. The sky lightens another shade, softening the world and making it feel safer than it did minutes ago. I approach the next intersection as the light changes to red, my foot moving automatically toward the brake.
It goes all the way down. Nothing happens.
My foot stays on the brake, pressing harder out of reflex. The pedal sinks to the floorboard again, and the car keeps moving, the intersection closing in. A cold rush moves through my chestand into my arms. My hands tighten on the steering wheel, my knuckles blanching, and my pulse begins to climb in fast, ugly increments.
“No,” I mutter, my eyes snapping from the red light ahead to the cross traffic beginning to move.
I lift my foot and press the brake again. The pedal drops with no resistance and no response.
My stomach clenches so hard it feels like a cramp. I glance down at the dashboard. The speed isn’t high, but it’s high enough for the intersection in front of me to become a problem in seconds.
The light remains red. A sedan crosses left to right. Another follows. A delivery van begins to move through behind them. My brain does what it always does in emergencies. I stop thinking in sentences and start problem-solving.
I ease my foot onto the parking brake and pull up carefully, testing. The handle lifts, tension forming, but the car doesn’t respond the way it should. The rear tires drag a fraction, then release, as if the mechanism can’t fully engage.
My mouth goes dry.
I try downshifting, moving the gear selector, my eyes darting between the road and the console. The engine changes tone, the car resisting slightly, but not enough to matter with the intersection coming at me and the light still red.
The horn blares as my palm slams down on it. The sound is raw and continuous, tearing through the morning air. Heads turn. Adriver in the crossing lane looks toward me with confusion that turns to alarm when he realizes I’m not stopping.
I swerve into the open space between lanes, aiming for the narrow gap that might keep me from entering the intersection at full speed. The tires bark against the pavement, the car lurching sideways, and my shoulder jerks against the seatbelt as it tightens across my chest.
