Nate
She's in the same booth as yesterday.
Left side. Back to the wall.
Good instincts.
I'm parked across the street, engine off, sunglasses on, even though I don't need them, the diner faintly reflected across my windshield, and from here I can see her profile through the glass. Tiffany is across from her. Two coffee mugs. Pancakes arriving on worn white plates.
She doesn't eat right away.
She cuts into the pancakes and pushes syrup around with the edge of her fork like she's negotiating with it and rearranging food instead of consuming it. Her shoulders are tense, her posture pulled inward, her eyes drifting to the door and then back to the table.
She touches her throat once while she talks.
Just a brief, unconscious movement.
My jaw tightens.
That isn't random.
People don't touch their neck like that unless something lives there.
I log the time without thinking.
9:12 a.m.
Tiffany says something that makes Wren nod slowly. Wren answers quietly, eyes on the tabletop. I can't hear the words, but I don't need to. I've seen this body language before — the careful way trauma wears a person down to their edges.
She felt something last night.
I know because I was there.
Outside her house.
In the trees.
Watching the lights go out.
I'd been watching her on the bedroom feed while she slept. When she woke, she was gasping, pulling in air like she'd been underwater too long.
Instinctively, I was out of the cabin, running through the wooded area behind her house, watching from the trees like some creep.
I don't even remember deciding to move.
People don't wake up gasping and screaming for no reason. Their bodies register threats long before their minds catch up.
I tell myself that doesn't mean anything.
Correlation isn't causation.
Still.
She stares at her plate like it's asking something of her she isn't ready to give.
Tiffany leans forward, elbows on the table, talking animatedly now. Whatever she says makes Wren snort softly, surprise flickering across her face. Wren lifts her fork again, hesitates, then finally takes a real bite.
Her eyes close for half a second.
Her shoulders drop.
There it is.
Relief.
She makes a small sound — exaggerated, playful — and Tiffany laughs. Wren lifts one eyebrow and says something that makes Tif roll her eyes dramatically.
And just like that, the atmosphere changes.
Wren starts eating properly.
She cuts another bite, then another. She gestures with her fork while she talks. Her body language opens up, tension bleeding out in small increments. She leans back against the booth, laughter softening the lines around her mouth.
She smiles.
Not the polite one from yesterday.
A real one.
It catches me off guard.
It shouldn't.
But it does.
She tilts her head as Tiffany says something outrageous, lips curling as she shakes her head. Then she laughs — quiet but genuine — and for a moment she looks like someone who belongs in sunlight and diners and stupid conversations about nothing.
Not someone who sleeps with a baseball bat beside her bed.
Tiffany reaches across the table and covers Wren's hand with hers.
Wren doesn't pull away.
She lets herself be held there.
I zoom slightly without meaning to, catching the movement. The way Wren's thumb brushes against Tif's knuckles. The way her shoulders relax another fraction.
Connection.
Safety.
Something she rebuilt without him.
Without me.
I lower the camera.
She isn't a mark.
She isn't a runaway thief.
She's a woman who wakes from nightmares, touches her throat without realising, and still tries to enjoy pancakes like the world hasn't taught her to be afraid.
Daniel doesn't get this version of her.
I don't know when I decided that.
I know it's already true.
Wren glances toward the window.
For half a second, her gaze brushes my truck.
My pulse spikes.
She doesn't recognise me.
Not consciously.
But something in her still reacts.
I look away first.
She shouldn't be this aware.
That complicates things.
I sink deeper into the seat and pull my jacket higher around my neck.
Let her finish breakfast.
Let her laugh.
Let her feel normal for another few minutes.
Because once she's on her own again, everything tightens.
And I don't like how invested I already am.
A few minutes later, Tiffany stands first, tossing cash onto the table. Wren slides out after her, shrugging into her jacket, a faint smile still lingering on her lips.
I start the engine before they reach the door.
They step into the morning light, laughter trailing behind them. Wren squints against the sun and pauses just long enough to scan the street.
Not dramatic.
Just instinct.
I lower my head slightly, letting the brim of my sunglasses do the rest.
Tiffany gestures toward her car — a small hatchback with a dent in the rear bumper that's old enough to be permanent. Wren hesitates for half a second before climbing into the passenger seat.
They don't turn toward her house.
They drive out of town.
Interesting.
I wait three full car lengths before pulling out behind them.
Not close enough to register.
Not far enough to lose them.
Stanley disappears quickly, swallowed by trees and long stretches of empty road. Cell service flickers in and out. Through the windshield ahead, I can see Tiffany talking with her hands, animated even from a distance.
Wren throws her head back and laughs.
She hasn't done that in days.
The road curves south.
Thirty minutes later, they pull into a strip of low retail buildings near a highway junction. A gas station. A thrift store. A shop selling fishing supplies.
And then I see it.
Pink neon.
Tastefully discreet, but not subtle.
I almost laugh.
Of course.
Tiffany climbs out first, pleased with herself. Wren lingers in the passenger seat, staring up at the storefront like she's debating whether to jump from a plane.
Tiffany leans down and says something through the open window.
Wren rolls her eyes — but she's smiling.
She gets out.
The bell above the door jingles as they step inside.
I sit there a moment longer, engine idling.
This isn't part of the job.
This isn't routine mapping.
This is personal.
I should stay in the truck.
Instead, I park two rows over and step out.
I don't go inside.
I position myself where I can see the entrance reflected in the gas station windows across the lot.
Fifteen minutes pass.
Then twenty.
When they finally emerge, Wren's cheeks are flushed. Tiffany carries a small paper bag, a smirk she doesn't bother hiding.
Wren reaches for it.
Tiffany lifts it just out of reach.
They're laughing.
Unfiltered. Unrestricted.
And something tightens in my chest.
She's rebuilding parts of herself he tried to erase.
I shouldn't be here for this.
They head back to the car, Tiffany still teasing. Wren shakes her head but takes the bag this time, clutching it to her chest like it's both ridiculous and precious.
I look away before she glances up.
They pull out of the lot.
I give them distance before following them home.