Scene Two The Shadow He Doesn’t Trust
Wren started down the sidewalk, the kind that looked safe in daylight but felt different now that the sky had given up on color. The streetlamps flickered like they were thinking about turning on but hadn’t committed yet.
Her footsteps sounded too loud. Too alone.
Behind her, the bike’s engine hummed — low, steady, controlled. She didn’t look back at first. She didn’t want to make it obvious she noticed him.
But she felt him.
Not following.
Not escorting.
Just… there.
She finally glanced over her shoulder.
Kade wasn’t close.
He wasn’t hovering.
He wasn’t watching her.
He was watching the dark.
His eyes weren’t on her at all — they were on the stretch of road ahead, the alley openings, the shadows between houses, the places where light didn’t reach.
He rode slow, matching her pace without making it look intentional. The bike moved like it was part of him, quiet and dangerous in the same way he was.
She swallowed. Her throat felt tight.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, not loud, not soft — just enough for him to hear if he wanted to.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t even look at her.
The only sign he’d heard was the slight shift of his jaw, like he was thinking about something he didn’t plan to say.
A car passed on the opposite side of the road, headlights sweeping across them. Kade’s gaze followed the light until it disappeared, then returned to the shadows.
Not her.
Never her.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
This time he spoke, but he didn’t raise his voice.
“Things that don’t stay in the light.”
She stopped walking.
He didn’t.
He rode a few more feet before slowing, turning the bike slightly so he could see her without facing her directly.
“You think something’s out here?” she asked.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t shift.
He didn’t soften.
“I don’t trust the dark,” he said.
And somehow, that was worse — and safer — than anything else he could’ve said.