Wren
Before I even spot him, I sense his presence. My chest tightens with that familiar feeling, that I'm being watched. It strikes as I walk out of the diner, coffee warming my hands and a paper bag tucked under my arm. The air carries the scent of pine mingling with distant water, while the street remains characteristically quiet—Stanley's usual rhythm: just a few parked cars and some locals going about their day. Still, I can't help but slow my pace.
Across the road, a man leans against a dark truck.
He's tall. Taller than most people here. Broad shoulders beneath a faded jacket that looks worn in, not styled. Jeans. Heavy boots. Sunglasses, even though the sun isn't that bright.
He doesn't look at me directly.
I know I might be overthinking—it's just how I am. "Thank you, Daniel", I mutter to myself.
He looks like he's scrolling on his phone, weight shifted casually to one hip, like he's killing time. But there's something about the way he holds himself that doesn't match the relaxed pose.
Still, Alert.
Like he knows exactly what's happening around him.
I tell myself not to overthink it.
Stanley is small. New faces stand out. That doesn't mean anything.
I take a sip of my coffee and start walking.
His reflection follows me in the windows of the general store.
Not obviously.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that I notice.
My pulse picks up.
I hate that my body still reacts this way. Hate that even now — even here — I catalogue exits and count steps and measure distance without meaning to.
He doesn't follow me.
Not directly.
But when I stop to let a truck pass, I catch him watching me over the top of his sunglasses.
Just for a second.
His eyes are dark. Hard to read. Not unfriendly exactly — just… unreadable.
It feels like being assessed.
I look away first.
My house comes into view, tucked back from the road, trees framing the driveway. Relief loosens something in my shoulders.
I walk faster.
Keys out. Door unlocked, inside in seconds.
I lock it behind me.
Only then do I exhale.
I stand in the kitchen for a moment, coffee forgotten on the counter, listening to the quiet.
You're safe, I tell myself.
He was probably passing through.
Tourists come through sometimes. Hikers. Fishermen. People chasing quiet.
Still, I check the windows as I walk past.
He's already gone.
"For fuck's sake, Wren," I mutter under my breath. "Get a grip."
In the studio, I tie my apron on with hands that aren't shaking anymore and turn the music low. The brush feels familiar in my fingers. Grounding.
I lose myself in colour for a while.
Time slips.
The light changes.
When I finally step back from the canvas, my shoulders ache, and I realise I still have half my coffee left and what a surprise, it's cold.
Outside, the road is empty.
Whatever tension I carried with me has faded, replaced by the quiet rhythm of paint, breath, and space.
Later, curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped tight around me, I put on The Vampire Diaries for what has to be the hundredth time and drag my phone closer.
I don't even think before I call Tif.
She answers on the second ring.
"Demon time?" she says.
"Always."
"What season?"
"Season two. He's still in his morally unhinged era. Peak performance." I sigh. "That smile should come with a warning label."
She groans. "I swear I would let that man absolutely destroy me."
I smirk. "Tell me a woman who wouldn't."
"I mean, he has that whole 'I might ruin you, but I'll make it worth it' energy," I add.
"That's the dream," Tif says
I laugh softly. "You are aware he'd probably throw you against a wall and tell you to behave."
Tif stays quiet for a beat.
"Don't threaten me with a good time," she says.
I shake my head. "You need therapy."
"And you need a man who looks at you like he's debating felony charges."
My stomach flips, and I force a laugh. "Okay. That got dark."
"Tell me I'm wrong."
"I couldn't tell you, I was only with Daniel, and we both know how that turned out. I've never…" I linger, "You know…"
"What, you never had good sex even in the beginning?" Tif says in shock.
"I mean, it was ok, but it was never earth-shattering."
"Okay, so we are going to revisit this convo another time
I laugh softly. "What you up to anyway?"
"Eating cereal for dinner," she replies. "Like a responsible adult."
"Living the dream."
There's a pause, not awkward — just easy.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say honestly. "Just… tired. In a good way."
"That's progress."
I tuck the blanket tighter around myself. "I painted today."
"I'm so proud of how far you've come", Tif says proudly.
Something warm settles in my chest.
"I honestly wouldn't have been able to get where I am without you."
We talk about random shit — her neighbour's ridiculous dog, the diner's pancakes, and obviously, back to how we will always be team Demon.
It's normal.
Ordinary.
By the time we hang up, my coffee has gone cold again, and the episode has ended, but I feel lighter than I did an hour ago.
I set my phone down, turn the TV off, and make sure everything is locked up before slipping into bed and drifting off to sleep.