Wren
Daniel's hand is around my throat.
Not hard enough to kill me.
Just enough to remind me who's in control.
I claw at his wrist, my fingers slipping on sweat and skin, my lungs burning as panic climbs higher and higher in my chest.
"You don't get to look at other men," he's shouting, his face twisted with something ugly and familiar. "You don't get to leave. You don't get to decide anything."
I try to scream.
Nothing comes out.
The room tilts. Black spots bloom in my vision.
My feet barely touch the floor.
Then—
I wake up gasping.
Air rushes into my lungs like I've been underwater too long. My heart slams against my ribs. Sweat slicks my back, my hair sticking to my temples. For a moment, I don't know where I am.
I sit upright so fast the room spins.
My bedroom comes into focus slowly. Pale walls. The studio door is open. Moonlight spilling across the floor in soft silver bands.
You're okay. You're in Stanley. This is yours.
I press a hand to my throat, half expecting to feel his fingerprints.
There's nothing there.
Just skin.
Still, my hands shake.
I take a deep breath.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach automatically for the metal baseball bat beside the mattress. It's cold and solid in my grip — grounding in a way nothing else quite manages.
I stand, moving quietly through the house.
Bare feet on polished concrete.
The air feels heavier at night, like sound doesn't travel the same way. Every small noise feels amplified. The refrigerator hums softly. Somewhere outside, water shifts against the lake's edge.
I check the doors first.
Front locked.
Back locked.
Studio locked.
I move room to room, bat held tight against my hip, scanning corners and shadows even though I know how ridiculous it looks. No signs of disturbance. No open windows. No footsteps that aren't mine.
My pulse starts to slow.
Then I reach the large living room window.
The lake lies dark beyond the glass, smooth and black under the moonlight. Trees frame the shoreline, their branches swaying gently in the night breeze.
And that's when I see him.
At least… I think I do.
A shape among the trees.
Tall.
Broad.
Still.
My stomach drops.
I freeze, staring hard, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. It could be nothing — a trick of shadow. A branch catching the light wrong.
But my skin prickles anyway.
I glance away just long enough to turn off the lamp beside the couch, wanting a clearer view through the glass.
When I look back—
There's nothing there.
Just trees.
Just the quiet stretch of lake and forest, like it's always been.
My breath comes out shaky.
"For fuck's sake, Wren," I whisper.
You're paranoid.
Nightmares bleed into reality sometimes. Trauma does that. It teaches your body to stay alert even when there's no threat left to fight.
I lower the bat slowly.
After a minute, I set it back beside the bed and crawl under the covers, pulling them tight around my shoulders.
I tell myself I imagined it.
I tell myself I'm safe.
But sleep doesn't come easily after that.
And even when it does, I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching me.
The diner is warm the next morning.
Coffee steam curls toward the ceiling, carrying the smells of syrup and bacon, and something sweet baking in the background. Tiffany slides into the booth across from me with a grin like she owns the place.
"Good morning, beaut—" She stops short, eyes narrowing.
"Jesus. You look rough as fuck."
"Subtle as ever, Tif," I chuckle, wrapping both hands around my mug.
The waitress comes over with easy familiarity, already pouring Tif's coffee before she even asks.
"Pancakes?" she says with a smile.
"Always," Tif replies.
I nod. "Same, please."
She scribbles it down and heads back toward the kitchen.
I stare out the window while we wait, watching people drift past on the quiet street.
"On a serious note," Tif says gently, "you look exhausted."
"I didn't sleep great."
She lifts an eyebrow. "Nightmares?"
I hesitate. Then nod.
"And… I thought I saw someone outside my house," I admit quietly. "Last night."
Her smile fades instantly.
"Someone?"
"I don't know," I say. "Probably nothing. Shadows. Trees. My brain is being dramatic."
Tif leans forward.
"You felt watched."
"Yes."
She studies my face for a long moment.
"That isn't nothing," she says softly. "That's your instincts."
"I don't trust my instincts anymore," I reply. "They've been wrong before."
"They've also saved your life, babe."
I swallow.
She's not wrong, and I hate that.
Our pancakes arrive, golden and steaming, but my appetite doesn't follow. I cut into mine without much enthusiasm, pushing syrup across the plate with the edge of my fork.
"I keep telling myself I'm just tired," I say. "That my brain is borrowing old fear and pasting it onto new situations."
Tif watches me carefully.
"And?"
"And I hate that part of me that still feels like everything is waiting to go wrong."
She reaches across the table and taps my hand lightly.
"That's a normal feeling for someone who's been through what you have."
I nod.
"I just need to shake it off," I say. "This happens sometimes. I always drag myself back to reality."
I smile, trying to convince both of us.
I take a bite of the pancake.
Soft. Fluffy. Drenched in syrup.
"Mmm," I moan, probably with way too much enthusiasm.
Tif snorts. "You need to get a room."
"Listen," I say, dead serious. "This is the most pleasure I've had since I moved here. Let me have my moment."
She grins. "We need to get you a BOB."
"Who the fuck is Bob?"
Tif laughs — loud enough that a couple of people glance over.
"A BOB is a battery-operated boyfriend," she says with a wink. Then leans in.
"A vibrator."
I snort. "I dunno. It's been a while."
I don't say how long. Some parts of me are still learning they're allowed to exist again.
"Exactly," she says. "You need something to help you relax. And what's better than an orgasm?"
She watches my face and immediately knows she's got me thinking.
"Where would I even get one?" I ask. "Would I have to order it online or something?"
"We can go to the place I got mine," Tif says. "It's like a thirty-minute drive. We'll go after breakfast."
She flashes me a triumphant grin.
Decision made.