Damien Wolfe
She found me in the study, half-drunk and pretending to work. I heard her before I saw her light footsteps, the pause in the doorway, the soft inhale like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to enter.
When I finally looked up, she was standing there in one of my shirts, sleeves rolled high, bare feet on the rug. Her hair was damp from a shower. She looked… normal. Like someone who didn’t belong anywhere near me.
I dropped my pen and leaned back in the chair.
“What?”
She hesitated, eyes darting to the glass in my hand. “Why am I still here?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d asked, but this time something in her voice was different quieter, steadier, like she was done waiting for an answer that made sense.
“You know why,” I said.
“Because it’s not safe out there,” she repea
