10. Enya
ENYA
I wake at four in the morning, heart already racing before I'm fully conscious.
The flat's dark and quiet. Warren's asleep down the hall. Mam's door is closed. Everything's normal. Safe.
But my body doesn't believe it.
I lie there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, feeling my pulse hammer against my ribs. My shoulders ache from holding tension all night. My jaw hurts from clenching. Even my hands feel stiff, like I've been making fists in my sleep.
Declan was at the pub yesterday.
The thought loops endlessly, inescapable.
He was there. Real. Not a ghost or a nightmare but flesh and blood, standing at my bar, staring at me with that look I remember all too well. That quiet confidence. That possessive certainty.
Like I still belong to him.
I drag myself out of bed, wrap a cardigan around my shoulders, and move through the flat checking locks. Front door, deadbolt and chain. Windows, latched. Balcony, locked. Everything is secure.
It doesn't make me feel safer.
I stand at the living room window and pull the curtain back just enough to see the street below. Empty. Just parked cars and streetlights casting orange pools on the wet pavement.
No shadows. No movement. No Declan.
But he's out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting.
You look different.
The message echoes in my head. I deleted it but the words are burned into my brain. He saw me. Recently enough to notice I look different.
Which means he's been close. He’s following me. Watching.
For how long?
My stomach turns. I press my hand against the glass, feeling the cold seep through.
How much has he seen? Does he know where I live? Did he see Warren? Does he know Mam’s living with us?
Does he know about Tank?
The thought makes me feel sick. If Declan saw me with Tank, at the clubhouse, leaving together, anything, he'll think... Christ, I don't even want to imagine what he'll think.
What he'll do.
I drop the curtain and step back from the window. My hands are shaking again. They’ve been shaking on and off since yesterday, fine tremors I can't control.
I make tea I don't want. Stand in the kitchen watching the kettle boil, trying to ground myself in something normal. Something routine.
But nothing feels normal anymore.
Warren wakes around seven. I hear him padding down the hallway, bare feet on the floorboards, and force myself to straighten. Put on a smile. Be Mam.
He appears in the kitchen doorway, hair sticking up, rubbing his eyes. "Morning."
"Morning, love." My voice sounds almost normal. Almost. "Sleep alright?"
"Yeah." He climbs onto a chair at the table. "Can I have pancakes?"
"Course you can."
I make pancakes on autopilot, hands moving through familiar motions while my mind races elsewhere. Warren chatters about a friend's birthday party, and I nod and make appropriate sounds but I'm barely listening.
I'm thinking about the walk to school. The route we take every day. How exposed we'll be.
How easy it would be for Declan to follow. To watch.
"Mam?"
I blink. Warren's staring at me, pancake halfway to his mouth. "Yeah?"
"Are you okay? You look sad."
Guilt hits hard. I cross to him, crouch beside his chair, smooth his hair back. "I'm not sad, love. Just tired. I didn't sleep well."
"Why?"
"Just one of those nights. Nothing for you to worry about."
He studies my face with those too knowing eyes. Five years old and he can already read me better than I'd like. "Is it Da?"
My chest tightens. "No. No, love. Nothing to do with your da."
The lie tastes bitter. Everything's to do with his da.
"Okay." He goes back to his pancakes, seemingly satisfied, but I can see the worry lingering in his expression.
I hate this. I hate that my fear is bleeding into him. I hate that I can't protect him from it completely.
I hate that Declan's back and threatening everything we've built.
* * *
The walk to school is torture.
Every sound behind us makes me jump. Every man we pass gets a second look. Is that him? Or that one? Tall enough, right build, wrong face, but what if he's following us? What if he's watching from across the street?
Warren holds my hand, oblivious, talking about his teacher, about art class, about the dinosaur book Gran read to him last night.
I nod. Smile. Keep walking.
But my eyes never stop scanning.
There…a car parked at the corner. Black. Four-door. Is that the same car I saw yesterday on this street? I can't remember. Can't be sure.
But it feels familiar. Feels wrong.
My pace quickens. Warren has to skip to keep up.
"Mam, why are we going so fast?"
"Just running a bit late, love. I don't want you to miss the bell."
Another lie. We're not late. I just need to get him inside. Need him behind locked doors with teachers who'll keep him safe.
At the school gates, I crouch down and hold his face between my hands. "Be good today, yeah?"
"I'm always good."
"I know you are." I kiss his forehead. "Love you so much."
"Love you too, Mam."
He runs off toward his friends, backpack bouncing. I watch until he disappears inside the building, then I stand there for another minute, just watching the doors.
He's safe. He's inside. He's okay.
But the relief doesn't come. Just more fear. More awareness that keeping him safe means keeping myself safe. And I don't know if I can do that.
Not with Declan circling closer.
* * *
I arrive at the pub early. Too early. Ciara's not even here yet. I let myself in through the back, lock the door behind me, and stand in the dim storage room trying to calm my breathing.
The pub feels different today. Too open. Too exposed. All those windows. The front door that anyone can walk through.
Declan walked through it yesterday.
My hands start shaking again. I press them flat against my thighs, willing them to stop.
You're fine. You're safe. He's not here right now.
But he could be. He could walk in any minute. He could be waiting outside right now, watching.
I move to the bar and start setting up. Wipe down surfaces that don't need wiping. Restock glasses that are already full. I just need something to do with my hands.
Ciara arrives twenty minutes later, all energy and bright morning cheer. She takes one look at me and frowns.
"Christ, Enya. You look wrecked."
"Thanks."
"No, I mean… Are you alright? You're pale as milk."
"Just tired. I didn't sleep well."
"Again?" She sets her bag down and moves closer. "That's three nights in a row. What's going on?"
"Nothing. Just life stuff."
"Life stuff." She doesn't believe me. I can see it written all over her face. "Does this have anything to do with Tank?"
My stomach clenches at his name. "No."
"Because he was here yesterday. Sitting at the bar. Watching you."
"I know."
"And you didn't talk to him."
"There's nothing to talk about."
Ciara studies me, clearly wanting to push further, but something in my expression stops her. "Alright. But if you need to talk about Tank or anything else, I'm here, yeah?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
She moves away to finish setting up, and I'm left alone with my spiraling thoughts again.
Tank was here yesterday. Watching. Not approaching, not demanding anything, just... present.
And despite everything, despite the fear and the exhaustion and the crushing weight of Declan's return, part of me felt safer knowing he was there.
Which terrifies me almost as much as Declan does.
The afternoon shift passes in a blur. Customers come and go. I pour pints, make small talk, and smile when I'm supposed to.
But inside I'm barely holding together.
Every time the door opens, my heart stops. Every man who approaches the bar makes my pulse spike. And there's this constant awareness that makes every sound too loud, every movement too sharp.
Around two, a man orders whiskey. Middle-aged, graying hair, unremarkable face. He sits at the bar, drinks slowly, and doesn't cause trouble.
But he's wearing aftershave. Something familiar.
Declan's aftershave.
The smell hits me like a physical blow. Suddenly, I'm not in the pub anymore. I'm in our old flat, Declan looming over me, that smell choking me, his voice low and dangerous…
"Enya?"
I blink. Ciara's staring at me, concerned. "You alright?"
"Yeah. Sorry. Just spaced out for a second."
"You sure? You've gone really pale."
"I'm fine."
But I'm not fine. My hands are shaking badly now, heart racing, breath coming too fast.
I need to move. I need to get away from that smell before I lose it completely.
"I'm just gonna grab something from the back," I say, already moving.
Ciara calls after me but I don't stop. I push through to the storage room, close the door, and lean against it.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Five things I can see. Four things I can touch. Three things I can hear.
The grounding technique the therapist taught me. It works—usually. But today, my brain won't cooperate. It just keeps replaying memories I've spent three years trying to bury.
Declan's voice. His hands. The way he'd smile right before he lost his temper.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Warren's photos. This helps more; seeing his face, his gap-toothed smile, the reminder of why I left. Why I stay strong.
For him. Always for him.
I check my messages. Nothing new from blocked numbers. No texts from Declan.
The silence should comfort me.
Instead, it makes everything worse.
Because silence means he's planning something. Watching. Waiting for the right moment.
And I have no idea when that moment will come.
I compose myself enough to go back out. Ciara gives me a worried look but doesn't ask questions.
The afternoon rush starts. More customers. More noise. More doors opening and closing.
And then I hear his voice.
Tank.
Just ordering a Guinness from Ciara, voice low and rough and unmistakable.
Something jolts in my chest. Not fear. Something else. Something I don't want to examine too closely.
I glance down the bar. He's in the same seat as yesterday. Leather jacket, dark eyes, that careful stillness he carries like armor.
Not looking at me. Not approaching. Just... there.
My chest tightens.
I should be angry. Should tell him to leave. Should make it clear I don't need him watching over me like some fucking guard dog.
But I can't.
Because part of me, a part I hate admitting exists, feels safer knowing he's here.
And that terrifies me more than Declan does.
I deliberately stay at the far end of the bar and serve customers on the opposite side, avoiding even glancing in his direction.
But I feel him. Every second. That weight of attention. That quiet, steady presence.
It doesn't feel invasive. It doesn't feel like surveillance.
It feels like protection.
And I don't know what to do with that.
The afternoon drags on. I keep busy. Keep moving. Anything to avoid thinking about Tank sitting there or Declan out there somewhere or the crushing fear that's been living under my skin for days.
But around three, my hands start shaking so badly I nearly drop a pint glass.
It slips, tips, and I catch it at the last second. But the movement's jerky. Obvious.
I glance up without meaning to.
Tank's halfway out of his seat, body tense, eyes locked on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
He's scared.
Not for himself. For me.
I can see it written all over his face; the concern, the protectiveness, the barely controlled instinct to cross the bar and demand to know what's wrong.
Our eyes hold for a long moment. Too long. Long enough for me to see past the careful control to the fear underneath.
He cares. Really cares. More than he should for someone he barely knows.
And that realization cracks something open in my chest, something I've been trying to keep sealed shut.
I look away first. I set the glass down with shaking hands and force myself to keep moving.
But I feel him watching. Feel that weight of concern following me for the rest of my shift.
And I hate how much I want it. How much I need it.
How much I'm terrified of letting myself lean into it.
* * *
My shift ends at five. I grab my jacket, say goodbye to Ciara, and head out into the cool Dublin evening.
The street's busy with people heading home from work, couples meeting for drinks—the usual Friday chaos.
But I can't settle. I can't shake the crawling awareness that someone's watching.
I start walking. Fast. Head down, bag clutched tight.
And right there, across the street. A figure. Just standing there.
My heart stops.
Is that him? Declan? The build looks right. The height. The way he's standing.
I walk faster.
The figure doesn't move. Just watches me.
Or maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe it's just someone waiting for the bus or checking their phone or just going about their day.
I turn the corner, nearly running now. My breath comes in sharp gasps, hands shaking, vision narrowing.
I risk a glance back. The figure's gone.
Or was it ever there?
I don't know. I can't tell what's real and what's paranoia.
By the time I reach my building, I'm shaking so badly I can barely get my keys out.
I drop them once, twice, then finally manage to unlock the door and stumble inside the main entrance and run up the stairs, my breathing hard as I take the stairs two at a time.
I reach my apartment on the third floor, thankfully, managing to open the door without fumbling my keys this time.
I rush into my apartment, slam the door shut, lock it, chain it. Check them twice.
Then I slide down to the floor, back against the door, and let myself break.
Not crying. Just shaking, gasping, trying to breathe through the panic threatening to drown me.
Declan's out there. Watching. Waiting.
And I don't know how much longer I can do this alone.
I don't know if I can keep Warren safe. Keep Mam safe. Keep myself safe.
I don't know if I'm strong enough.
The flat's quiet around me. Warren's at the dining room table doing homework. Mam's cooking dinner. I can smell it from here. Normal domestic sounds.
But nothing feels normal.
Everything feels fragile. Temporary. Like it could shatter at any moment.
Like Declan could take it all away with one move.
I press my hands against my face, trying to hold myself together.
I need help. I know I need help.
But asking for it means admitting I'm not okay. It means letting someone in. It means risking them getting hurt because of me.
Tank's face flashes through my mind. The fear in his eyes when I almost dropped that glass. The way he stood up without thinking. The quiet protectiveness that's been following me for days.
He wants to help. I know he does.
But I can't let him. I can't drag him into this. I can't risk Declan turning his attention toward Tank.
I can't risk losing someone else because I wasn't strong enough to handle this alone.
So I'll keep pushing through. Keep pretending I'm fine. Keep protecting everyone by keeping them at arm's length.
Even if it means drowning.
Even if it means facing Declan alone.
Even if I'm terrified I won't survive it this time.