The rain has slowed to a nervous drizzle, tapping weakly against the shop window. Streetlights smear pale streaks across the wet asphalt, turning everything outside into a half-lit painting. It could be a normal evening. It could be. It isn’t. Damon sits on the stool by my workbench, back against the wall, eyes half closed….
The shop feels smaller with him inside it. Not physically—he’s tall, yes, broad enough to take up more space than a stranger should—but that’s not what makes the air shift. It’s something else. Something that hums just beneath the surface, sharp and alive, filling the room like static before a storm. He stands just inside…
Rain should make it harder to bleed, but tonight it feels like it’s helping—washing every drop down my side, carrying the evidence away. Doesn’t matter. I’m leaving too much behind. Anyone who knows how to read a trail could follow me blind. My vision tilts again. Not now. Not here. I grip the wall to…
I stand behind the counter, fingers wrapped around a mug of tea gone cold, watching the rain turn the street outside into a blurred watercolor. Nights like this usually feel peaceful. Quiet. Predictable. My little flower shop is a soft glow in an otherwise dark corner of the city—just enough light to remind me I’m…
