A horn.
A scream.
I couldn’t tell if it was outside me or coming from my own chest, but the world lurched.
Weightless for only a second. Then impact. Hard.Violent. Final.
And then…vanilla. Sweet and thick. Completely out of place.
It filled my lungs, coated the back of my throat, tangled itself into the memory so tightly I couldn’t separate it from the rest of it.
“Desmond,” Anya’s voice cut through the black, dragging me from the depths. “Honey, wake up.”
“The coffee,” I mumbled, sitting up quickly. “I spilled it.” I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead and running down my neck. My hands were shaking. Violently. My chest heaved as if I’d been running, like I hadn’t stopped running since?—
“There’s no coffee, Des,” her hand was cool against my cheek, slowly pulling me out of the tunnel vision. “We’re home. You’re in bed.”
“The bus—” The word crept out of me, catching somewhere between my chest and my throat. “Anya?—”
“I’m right here.” She shifted closer, the mattress dipping with her weight, one hand still on my face, the other braced against my chest as though she could physically hold me in place. “You’re here. With me.”
But my body didn’t believe her.
My heart was still sprinting, frantic and uneven. My skin felt wrong — too tight, too hot, like something was still burning just beneath it.
“I can smell it,” I said, voice rough, panicked in a way I couldn’t quite contain. “Do you — do you smell that?”
Vanilla. It was everywhere.
Her hand stilled.
Just for a second.
Then she glanced over her shoulder toward the dresser, where the small candle we’d lit earlier had burned low, wax pooled and glossy. “That’s just the candle, baby,” she said gently. “From earlier, remember?”
My eyes followed hers. There it sat. Small and completely harmless.
I scrubbed a hand down my face, but it didn’t help. The smell was still there, layered over something else, something my brain refused to let go of. “I was bringing it to you,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
She stilled again, her head tilting to the side. “The coffee,” I added, my voice quieter now, more distant. “It was — I had it in my hand. I was?—”
“Oh, Desmond.” The sun tried to creep through the blackout curtains I’d installed to help us sleep better. And it was just enough that I could see her eyes sparkle.
“I was coming to see you.”
Anya’s grip on me tightened, holding on harder, as if she was afraid I might disappear if she didn’t. “Des?—”
“I didn’t even see it,” I pushed on, the frustration breaking through now, sharp and uneven. “One second I’m standing there, the next—” I let out a harsh breath. “I should’ve seen it. I should’ve done something.”
“You couldn’t have stopped that,” she said, firmer now.
My fingers caught at her waist, then slid around her, pulling her closer until she was practically in my lap, as if proximity alone could force my body to remember where I was. “Anya.”
She came without hesitation. Straddling my thighs, one hand braced on my shoulder, the other still at the back of my neck, grounding me from both sides.
“I’m here,” she whispered, her forehead pressing to mine. “I’m right here.”
“I thought I was going to die.” The admission tore out of me before I could stop it.
