I turned onto my street, the familiar buildings a welcome sight after the chaos of the day. My apartment complex looked peaceful—almost boring compared to the violence Serenity had seen in her vision.
The restaurant. Gunfire and blood and barely surviving.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
We'll be okay. Serenity said we survive. She saw us laughing. Throwing flour.
I parked in my usual spot, grabbed my bag, and headed upstairs. Each step felt heavy, exhaustion settling into my bones now that the adrenaline had finally worn off.
Inside my apartment, I went through the motions. Locked the door. Checked the windows—a habit I'd developed since the first attack. Changed into comfortable clothes. Washed my face. Brushed my teeth.
Normal, mundane actions that felt surreal given everything hanging over my head.
I climbed into bed, stared at the ceiling, and willed sleep to come.
It didn't.
My mind kept replaying the day. Isobel's matter-of-fact explanation of marriage as a strategic move. The flash of hurt in Quentin's eyes when he said it wasn't how he wanted to propose. The warmth of his hand in mine. That kiss by the elevator.
Serenity's vision of us laughing together.
Love. Real, deep, lasting love.
Could that be real? Or was I just desperate to believe in something good in the middle of all this chaos?
I rolled onto my side, pulled the covers up to my chin, squeezed my eyes shut.
Still couldn't sleep.
The clock on my nightstand read 11:47.
I grabbed my phone, unlocked it, stared at Quentin's contact.
Don't be ridiculous. He's probably asleep. You can't just call him because you're having feelings and existential dread about tomorrow.
I set the phone back down.
Lasted maybe thirty seconds before picking it up again.
Just to check he's okay. Just to make sure he's not worrying about tomorrow. That's what partners do, right? Check on each other?
My finger hovered over his name.
Before I could talk myself out of it again, my phone lit up.
Incoming call: Quentin.
My heart jumped into my throat.
I answered, trying not to sound too eager. "Hey."
"Hey." His voice was rough, tired, but warm. "Did I wake you?"
"No. Couldn't sleep."
"Yeah. Me neither." A pause, and I heard the rustle of fabric—maybe him shifting in bed. "I keep thinking about Serenity’s vision."
"Scared?"
