Seraphina
Grocery stores are weird. Everyone smiles. Everyone asks how you're doing, but nobody actually wants the answer. They just want the polite version. Good. Fine. Can't complain.
Humans are funny like that. They wander the aisles collecting bread, milk, vegetables... little conversations they'll forget before they reach the parking lot.
Me?
I collect people.
Not in the serial-killer way relax. More in the writer's way.
Expressions. Habits. The tiny things nobody else notices.
Like the woman in aisle three who always taps every avocado before choosing one, or the old man who reads every cereal box like there's going to be a plot twist on the back.
Everyone is somebody's character. Most of them just don't know it yet.
The thought made me smile as I turned the sedan into the cracked asphalt parking lot of the Blackridge General Store.
The engine died with a mechanical shudder, leaving the cab smelling of cold vinyl, old paper, and the faint ghost of bleach that still lingered beneath my fingernails after this morning's cleaning spree.
"You squashed my hat," Gerald muttered from somewhere inside my oversized leather handbag.
"You don't even have organs," Frank replied from beneath a pile of folded grocery receipts.
"Neither do you."
"I have emotional organs."
"No. You have emotional damage."
"I have standards."
I sighed, pulling the keys from the ignition with a metallic clink.
"I'm separating the two of you and putting you on opposite shelves if you keep this up."
Silence. Beautiful, immediate silence. I grabbed my canvas bags, climbed out into the warm mountain air, and headed toward the automatic doors. Halfway there, I stopped. Because writers are nosy. No, I am lying, I am nosy. We pretend we're admiring architecture when we're actually people-watching.
Speaking of… You're reading this, aren't you?
Maybe with coffee. Maybe curled up in bed.
Maybe sitting somewhere sunny or cold. Judging my words or laughing at Gerald and Frank.
Maybe you've convinced yourself you're definitely not the sort of person who gets creeped out by books. That's cute. Tell me...
Did you lock your front door?
Don't check.
If you check now, I'll know I made you think about it. And if you didn't check…
Well…
Now you're wondering if you should.
Across the two-lane street, parked beneath the rusted awning of the hardware store, sat Elias's grey pickup. Even from here, I knew it before my brain had properly registered the shape. The truck looked exactly like its owner.
Nothing flashy. Nothing polished. Just dependable steel scarred by use, mud dried along the wheel wells. The hood still clicked softly as the engine cooled, thin ribbons of heat curling into the crisp mountain air before dissolving into nothing.
He leaned against the driver's side with one boot crossed over the other. One hand disappeared into the pocket of his canvas jacket while the other lazily cradled a paper coffee cup.
To anyone else...
He looked relaxed. He wasn't. Relaxed people don't catalogue exits. Relaxed people don't unconsciously angle their bodies toward open spaces. Relaxed people don't let their eyes drift over every parked vehicle, every rooftop, every stranger who wanders too close.
His gaze swept the square.
Windows. Doorways. Reflections. Vehicles. People. Back to windows again. A slow, practiced rhythm. Almost invisible. Military training never truly leaves you. It simply becomes quieter. You learn to disguise hypervigilance as curiosity.
His shoulders fascinated me most. Broad enough to make almost every doorway look too small, yet never truly at ease. They carried tension the way old oak trees carried scars naturally. Permanently. As though somewhere inside his bones he was still waiting for something to explode.
I wondered if he even knew he did it.
Probably not.
My attention drifted to Derek. He was standing beside Elias, laughing so hard he had thrown his head back, sunlight catching the silver bar through his eyebrow.
Everything about Derek invited trust. His smile reached his eyes. His shoulders bounced when he laughed. He spoke with his hands. Even his stance was open, balanced toward people instead of away from them.
It was... suspicious.
Real monsters rarely looked dangerous. They learned very early that kindness was camouflage.
Predators who bare their teeth don't eat nearly as well as predators who smile.
Derek smiled beautifully. Far too beautifully.
The corners of his bright blue eyes wrinkled with genuine amusement, making him look like the sort of man children would run toward without hesitation.
Maybe he really was exactly what he appeared to be.
Or maybe he simply understood performance better than most. I hadn't decided yet…
Then there was Mason. He barely moved. He didn't need to.
Some people occupied space by speaking. Mason occupied space by existing.
Silence bent around him. Arms folded across the black tactical vest hugging his broad chest, he stood with the absolute stillness of someone who understood that movement was a choice, never a habit.
His dark hair sat cropped close against his scalp, exposing the knife scar that disappeared into his left eyebrow while black Celtic tattoos crawled over his hands like ink refusing to stay beneath the skin.
If Derek resembled sunlight...
Mason resembled the storm rolling over the mountain behind it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just inevitable. Watching him reminded me of watching avalanche warnings.
Nothing happens...until everything does.
Without thinking, my hand slipped into the pocket of my cardigan. The phone felt familiar against my palm. I unlocked it. Not hurriedly. Not nervously. Deliberately.
I lifted it toward the old Methodist church across the street, angling the camera upward as though I had suddenly become fascinated by weathered brickwork and faded stained-glass windows.
A tourist. An author. A woman admiring history.
Click.
Perfectly believable. My thumb slid across the screen. The church quietly disappeared beneath the slow pinch of my fingers.
Closer.
Closer.
Past the peeling white paint. Past the cracked stone steps. Past Derek's moving hands. Past Mason's impossible stillness. Until only Elias remained.
The sunlight caught the edge of his jaw. The tiny pale scar beneath his left eye. The rough shadow was beginning to grow along his jawline. The tiredness hidden behind those observant green eyes. My lips unconsciously brushed together. As if remembering exactly how that stubble felt beneath them.
Click.
I stared at the photograph for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Light. Shadow. Composition. The way his expression never truly rested.
Beautiful.
I saved it without another thought before slipping the phone back into my pocket. One photograph. That was enough.
After all,
The best collections aren't built by taking everything. They're built by knowing exactly what is worth keeping.
"Seraphina."
The voice reached me before the footsteps did. I don't trust people who use your first name before you've given them permission. Names are funny things. The wrong person saying them can make them sound like fingerprints.
I turned slowly.
Deputy Collins crossed the pavement with an easy confidence that didn't belong to him. His uniform was immaculate, every crease pressed razor-sharp, his polished badge catching the afternoon sun. Everything about him looked rehearsed. Too clean. Too deliberate.
Some people wore uniforms. Others hid inside them. He stopped just a little too close. Not close enough for anyone watching to think twice but close enough that I could smell the stale wintergreen mints on his breath mixed with cheap aftershave.
Close enough that if I stepped back...I'd be the rude one.
"Deputy."
I smiled politely. Bright. Warm. Harmless.
His grin widened.
"Out shopping, Seraphina?"
"It's Miss Calloway."
The correction slipped from my lips as gently as pouring tea. Not angry. Not embarrassed. Simply... accurate. For the briefest moment something flickered behind his eyes. Annoyance but it was gone almost before it arrived.
"Miss Calloway," he repeated smoothly. "Old habits."
Funny. We'd never had habits.
"I didn't expect to see you in town after the storm."
"A kitchen doesn't stock itself."
"No," he chuckled. "I suppose not."
His eyes drifted over me. Not my face. My hands. My shoulders. The oversized blue jersey hanging almost to my thighs. His gaze lingered a second longer than necessary before returning to my eyes. People who think they're subtle usually aren't.
"The roads were pretty rough coming down."
"They survived."
"So did you."
"I usually do."
His smile held. Mine stayed exactly where I'd left it. There was a strange little silence. Not uncomfortable. Measured. Like two chess players pretending they weren't already counting moves ahead.
Then…
He stepped closer. Barely half a step. Enough that his polished boot crossed an invisible line I'd drawn without realizing it.
"So..."
His voice lowered.
"I've been thinking."
That sentence has never ended well. It probably hurted his brain a bit too.
"You've lived up here by yourself for a while now."
"I have."
"It gets lonely."
"I like being lonely."
He laughed softly.
"I don't believe that."
"I wasn't asking you to."
His jaw flexed almost imperceptibly. Another tiny crack.
"I was wondering..."
Here it comes.
"...if maybe you'd let me take you to dinner sometime."
There it was. Not a question. Not really. More like an expectation wrapped in polite language. As though all I had to do was smile and say yes.
"I'm flattered."
I wasn't.
"But no."
His eyebrows lifted.
"No?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Interesting. Most people accepted rejection. The ones who questioned it always fascinated me.
"I prefer eating alone."
"You haven't even thought about it."
"I thought about it."
"And?"
"I still prefer eating alone."
Another smile. Smaller now. Tighter.
"You know..."
He reached toward me. Slowly.
Like someone approaching a nervous animal.
His fingertips brushed the sleeve of Elias's jersey.
Just above my wrist. A feather-light touch.
Nothing anyone walking past would notice.
Everything inside me noticed. My heartbeat didn't change.
My smile didn't disappear. I simply looked down at his hand. Then back up at him.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't touch me."
His fingers disappeared immediately.
"Oh."
He laughed.
"Sorry."
He wasn't.
"I forget sometimes."
"I don't."
The silence that followed stretched between us like fishing wire. Thin. Almost invisible. Strong enough to cut skin if you walked into it.
BANG.
The violent slam of a truck door cracked across the parking lot. My head turned before I could stop it. Across the street, the grey pickup came alive. The engine rumbled through the square with that familiar diesel growl, vibrating faintly beneath my boots.
Elias climbed behind the wheel. Derek was still laughing about something. Mason rounded the passenger side, climbing in without wasting a single movement. The truck eased away from the curb.
I watched it disappear through the intersection. Watched the sunlight catch the rear window. Watched the exhaust dissolve into the mountain air.
Watched...
Until it was gone.
"Miss Calloway."
I blinked. Collins was still standing there. Watching me. Not the road. Me. He hadn't missed a second of where my attention had gone. His smile had vanished completely.
Interesting. Very interesting.
"I should do my shopping."
My voice sounded pleasant again. Light. Almost musical.
"I wouldn't want the bakery to sell the last cinnamon rolls before I get inside."
Without waiting for a reply, I stepped around him. This time, he moved. Not because he'd suddenly remembered his manners. Because he'd realized pushing any harder would make him obvious. The automatic doors sighed open. Cool air spilled over my skin. I never looked back.
Sometimes the smartest thing you can do...is let someone believe they're still hunting.
When, really…
You've already started watching them.
The drive back up the valley felt longer than usual.
The mountain swallowed the last of the afternoon light, shadows stretching lazily across the gravel road until the birch trees stood like dark sentinels against a bruised purple sky.
The tires crunched softly beneath me, the only sound besides the occasional whisper of wind slipping through the valley.
Home always looked different at dusk. Less like a cottage.
More like something waiting. By the time I eased the sedan into the turnout, the porch light had begun painting warm amber squares across the weathered timber steps.
I gathered the grocery bags against my hip, balancing flour, butter, chocolate chips, coffee beans, and far too many lemons for one person.
Cookies. I promised Max cookies.
Well… Dog-friendly cookies.
He deserved better than the humans I'd met today. The screen door creaked softly as I climbed onto the porch. My fingers wrapped around the handle.
I stopped. The grocery bags shifted against my hip as I looked back across the valley. Twilight had settled over the trees, washing everything in muted blues and bruised purples. The road was empty. No headlights. No birds. No wind stirring the pine branches.
Just quiet. The thing about quiet… People think it's the safest part of the day. I think it's the most honest. Nothing has to pretend when nobody's speaking. I stood there for another moment before my eyes drifted toward the tree line.
You know… I never really understood why people are afraid of being watched. Most of us spend our lives hoping someone notices us. Until they do.
I smiled to myself. Then I picked up the grocery bags again.
I wonder… If someone watched you every day...
Would you notice? Or would they simply become part of the background?
Like the same bird sitting on the same fence.
The same truck parked across the street.
The same face you pass every morning. It's funny how quickly people stop seeing what's always there.
Maybe that's why details matter. They're the first things people stop looking at.
The interesting thing about watching someone...is eventually you stop noticing you're doing it and then one day...You realize you've memorized the way they walk. The way they laugh. The time they leave the house. The route they always take.
So, tell me... A soft laugh escaped me.
Which one of us is watching the other now?
I unlocked the front door. Before stepping inside, I glanced once more toward the valley. Nothing moved. At least… Nothing I could see. The door clicked shut behind me. The valley remained exactly as I'd left it.
Quiet.
Waiting.
Watching.