I pick up my mug once more. The coffee has gone cold, a bitter reminder of everything I’ve screwed up. I set the mug down with a clink that echoes in the kitchen. My phone feels heavy in my pocket, a ticking time bomb of my own making.
I need to check in. Make sure the town’s not falling apart without me. The only reason my absence didn't cause a problem yesterday is that most of my remaining work had been follow-ups and coordination. The team had kept things moving without me. Today's going to be brutal.
My fingers find Noah’s number before my brain can protest.
“Damon?” He sounds exhausted. “Everything handled on your end?”
“Mostly,” I lie, my throat tight. “Just feeling under the weather. Thought I’d take the morning.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken questions. “Under the weather or under someone?” Noah finally asks.
“Very funny.” I run a hand through my hair, wincing when my fingers catch on tangles. “Just need a few hours. Simon and Rory have things covered?”
“They’re good. We’ve got teams checking the wards hourly. No new surges since last night.” A pause. “You sure you’re okay? You sound off.”
“Fine,” I say, too quickly. “Just need rest.”
“Right.” I can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Call if you need anything. And I mean anything, Damon.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead, and I immediately dial the station. Maggie picks up on the first ring—of course she does.
“Sheriff’s office.”
“Maggie, it’s me.” Then I quickly explain that I’ll need some time off.
“Should I be worried?” she asks, and I can picture her leaning back in her chair, pen tapping against her desk. “Taking a sick day is so unlike you.”
“I’m okay. I think I’ve overextended myself. I’m thinking I need to take a nap, but I’ll be there by three latest.”
“So, half a day off?”
“Something like that,” I mutter. “Listen, Simon and Rory have things covered?”
“They’re out now, checking the east side. Road’s cleared, most folks have power back.” Her tone shifts, softer. “You sound terrible, honey. You sure you don’t need me to bring over some soup?”
“I’m good. Just call if there’s an actual emergency. Otherwise, I’ll be in this afternoon.”
“You got it, Sheriff.” She hesitates. “And Damon? Try to actually rest this time.”
“I will.”
I hang up before she can say more. Lying feels wrong, but the alternative—admitting I spent half the night thinking about Caroline, about her hands on my skin, about the way she said my name—feels impossible.
Footsteps shuffle behind me, and I turn to find Aunt Etta in the doorway, wrapped in a fluffy pink robe that clashes horribly with her purple slippers. Her silver hair’s pulled back in a messy bun, and she’s got that knowing smile that makes me feel like a kid again.
“Morning, sweetheart.” She shuffles over to the coffee pot, pouring herself a mug.
“Good morning.” I lean against the counter, trying to look casual and not like I’m about to jump out of my skin.
“Are you okay?”
How terrible must I look? “Um… yes.”
Her hand presses against my forehead, cool and soft. “You sure? You feel warm. Should I call Dr. Miller?”
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling away gently. “Just tired.”
