Chapter 1 #2
I laugh softly. She’s not wrong. They walk like mythology. They make promises they intend to fulfill, even at great personal cost.
I sip the tea; it’s lukewarm now and a little bitter.
I carry the mug into my small living room.
My apartment smells like old books and lemon oil, the kind of scent that belongs to a life built quietly.
The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence where his voice used to be.
I wrap a blanket around myself and allow my thoughts to wander.
I want to open the door again to say thank you. Perhaps I simply want to confirm his authenticity when he emerges from the void he's left behind. But I'm not sure. I stop my hand just before it touches the doorknob.
My daily planner is on the side table next to the couch, exactly where I’d placed it earlier. I flip forward to tomorrow’s date and scrawl a short list. I find comfort in the way I organize my life, with my time management system and the familiarity of my routines.
Finalize Special Orders. Touch base on deliveries for next week. Sort donation boxes for the library. Check the front display, and switch titles.
My pen stalls. Beneath the practical notes, I add something I don’t quite understand yet: Don’t forget the way he said your name… some sort of a flower.
I can still hear him saying it. The Scandinavian word rolls through my mind, quiet and unfamiliar on my tongue. I couldn’t begin to spell it if I tried. I also lack a clear understanding of its meaning.
But I know how it felt hearing him say it.
Warm. Safe. Possessing without owning. He was deliberate in a way that led me to believe he had specifically chosen it and understood its potential impact on me.
Nobody has ever looked at me as if I were something to protect rather than repair.
I slump down onto the couch, mug secured on my lap.
The city feels thick outside my window: heat and humidity.
Distant wailers flood the street, providing no relief.
Only the quiet white noise of cars and people going about their business, unaware of how saturated with life I suddenly feel, fills the air.
Streetlight spools across the blinds; stripes of silver and shadow paint the room. Quiet is meant to calm me down.
Instead, it thrums.
I replay the moment his hand touched my back earlier, his eyes never leaving mine as the lights flickered. He confidently pressed his palm against me, his sturdy comfort enveloping me without question. When he promised to keep me safe, his voice dropped.
Erik always says what he means. And when he speaks, his words fall right where he wants them to.
A siren sounds far away, lost in the noise of the city. Life continues as usual, and everything around me returns to its normal state. But something inside me has changed.
I should be worried about what this pull between us means. About what he means. But all I can feel is that silent rush of could-be-dangerous-but-I-trust-you feelings. He can block me from the world, and no one would dare to confront him.
I place my mug in the sink and shut off the kitchen and living room lights, with only a small lamp on another side table on the opposite side of the couch illuminating the living room.
Pad my feet against the doorframe one more time.
My fingers curl around the bolt he told me to engage.
The metal feels cool beneath my palm now.
“Good night, Erik.” I murmur at the darkness.
Outside my window, the city sighs. His SUV's gentle purr has long faded, yet his nearness remains.
And somewhere between sleep and waking, I hold onto the feeling that whatever comes next, I won’t be facing it alone.
Erik
Back at my loft, headlights smear across the windows. I take off my boots by the door. The building is quiet, the kind of silence that doesn’t exist in public spaces. Only money and paranoia buy this kind of quiet.
I drop the encrypted tablet on the counter and pull up the surveillance logs on my laptop.
22:13 → Camera C-17 malfunction. Duration = 00:32.
22:26 → Unmarked sedan, plate TXD-4982, idled for four minutes and seventeen seconds.
22:54 → Claire’s Bookstore closed, lights off, exit secure.
The data glows cold against the dark. Data first, reaction second, that's the rule drilled into every Halvorsen from the cradle. Facts before feelings. Numbers before names.
But tonight, reaction wins.
I strip off the shirt and let it fall where it lands.
The window glass is cool when I lean against it, the chill cutting through the humidity.
Hermann Park stretches below, a wash of black trees and sodium light.
A jogger’s headlamp flickers across the trail, a ghost in motion.
The city never sleeps; it only changes its masks.
Every instinct says to assign a guard. Put one of our men across the street, anonymous and armed. Every part of her would hate that. She guards her independence like it’s breath itself. To her, protection still looks too much like control.
So, I choose to compromise. I open the secondary feed, my private network of silent sensors that no one, not even Bjorn, knows exists.
Motion, heat, frequency. A perimeter of silent guardians weaves through the neighborhood like an invisible thread.
I toggle the grid to active and watch the map bloom faintly green. A man can protect without smothering.
My phone vibrates once, soft and insistent.
Bjorn: If the pattern holds, SableCorp is probing. Stay sharp.
Me: Always.
The words used to mean something: discipline, readiness, and control. Now it just means her name echoes in my head at inconvenient hours.
I pour a double measure of whisky, the good one, Islay, peat thick as smoke.
The scent fills the loft, earthy and sharp.
I log out of the system, but my mind stays online, tracing probabilities and faces.
SableCorp doesn’t test for sport; they test for weakness.
Grace’s abduction taught them which nerves to touch. They’ll come again, smarter this time.
I close my eyes and see Claire’s hands, ink-smudged, delicate, trembling slightly as she pours the tea. When I told her to lock the door, her delicate and quiet defiance.
Kameliablomst. Winter bloom. Beautiful. Resilient. It appears fragile only to those who lack a profound understanding of its roots.
The whisky burns a clean path down my throat. I switch off the main lights, letting the city’s glow spill through the windows. Reflections move across the glass, my face, the skyline, and the faint ghost of her outline still imprinted behind my eyes.
I could sleep, but sleep has never come easily. Instead, I walk the perimeter once more, a habit from years of deployments and corporate wars. Doors locked. Systems armed. Safe, in theory. The only thing I can’t barricade is the thought of her smile when she teased me: You always know.
Tomorrow, I’ll drop by the bookstore. Offer to replace the faulty camera. Pretend it’s logistics.