Damon said he’d help.
But the way he said it — calm, calculated, too smooth — made something twist in my stomach.
He didn’t ask for details.
Didn’t ask what Rob had last said or where he’d last been seen.
He just nodded, kissed my forehead, and said, “I’ll handle it.”
And I believed him.
Because I always did.
But that night, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept thinking about Rob — his easy smile, his stupid jokes, the way he always made sure I had water before studying, how he’d knock on my door just to ask if I’d eaten.
He wasn’t just a friend.
He was a constant.
A quiet presence.
A good one.
And now he was gone.
The next morning, Damon was already dressed — black shirt, sleeves rolled, phone in hand.
“Any news?” I asked.
He looked up, expression unreadable. “Not yet.”
I hesitated.
