Page 7 of Mine To Hunt

My parents have been gone barely two years now. It happened just as I was entering university. Twisted metal on a rain-slick highway, the cops’ voices flat and careful over the phone, likethey were afraid the words might shatter if they said them too loudly.

I remember standing there afterward, holding the phone, waiting for the part where it would feel real. It never really did. Not the way people say it should. Grief is supposed to flood you, drown you in it. Mine just… lingered, quiet and heavy, like something misplaced inside my chest.

No family left. Just scholarships, paperwork, and a life that suddenly had too much space in it.

I couldn’t stay in our family home after that. Every room was a landmine of memories. Their mugs still in the cupboard, my mother’s scarf hanging where she’d left it, my father’s shoes by the door like he might walk back in any second. The house felt frozen in the last moment they’d been alive.

So I moved into the university halls instead. Sterile walls. Shared bathrooms. Noise at all hours. It was easier than drowning in ghosts.

Ryan filled the gap fast. Two months into dating, he offered his place like it was the most logical thing in the world.‘Why pay rent when you can just stay with me?’Sensible, right? Safe. Convenient. Kind, even.

Maddie and Al exchange a glance. Quick but loaded. Their smiles stay plastered.

“Anyway,” Ryan says, steering me toward the passenger door, “don’t expect an invite to the wrap party. Iris here likes to keep all the good stories to herself.”

He opens the door with a flourish, like it's a grand gesture. "Your chariot, milady."

I slide in, buckling up as he circles back. "Night, guys." I call, waving through the open window. Maddie blows a kiss, Al gives a half-salute, but their eyes linger on Ryan as he climbs in. The engine turns over, smooth and low, and we pull away, their cars shrinking in the rearview.

The silence stretches for a block, Ryan's hand drumming the wheel to some classic rock humming from the speakers. I stare out the side window, city lights blurring past. Streetlamps, shop signs, and the occasional pedestrian huddled against the chill.

That knot from lunch tightens again, the text replaying:You look beautiful in blue.Stupid, I tell myself. Probably a wrong number, some bored freshman pranking. But then my phone buzzes in my lap, sharp and insistent.

I snatch it up, heart already tripping. Same unknown number. My thumb hovers, breath shallow.

‘Stay away from Ryan. He's not good for you.’

The words hit like ice water, short and slicing. Not good. Ambiguous enough to burrow deep. What does that even mean? Terror spikes, cold and electric, flooding my chest until I can't breathe right.

My eyes dart to the window, scanning the pavement, the shadows between parked cars. Nothing. Just a guy walking his dog, a couple arguing under an awning. No one watching. No face matching the voice in my head.

"You okay over there?" Ryan's voice cuts in, his hand finding mine across the console. Warm, callused from set work, squeezing just firm enough. "Looks like you saw a ghost."

I flinch, then cover it with a swallow. "Yeah. Nothing. Just... jumpy." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but now isn’t the time to explain. Especially not in the car, with him glancing over at me every few seconds. The fear tightens in my stomach like a coiled snake. Two texts today. Two. From nowhere.

He chuckles, thumb stroking my knuckles. "Jumpy? I’m the one who should be on edge, babe. Directors breathing down my neck all day."

He doesn't push, just squeezes once more and lets go to shift gears. Relief mixes with dread. Grateful he drops it, but guilty for the secret gnawing at me.

The drive drags after that, my pulse a drum in my ears, every red light a chance for eyes to linger on the car. But nothing happens. We turn into our complex, rows of tired brick buildings with peeling paint and flickering hallway lights, the kind of place people pass without looking twice. Ryan’s held onto the same cheap unit since his senior year.

"Home sweet home." He says, leaning over for another kiss. This one lingering, his hand cupping my jaw. It's soft, familiar, but tonight it feels off-kilter, like the text tainted it. I kiss back anyway, chasing normalcy.

Inside, the door clicks shut behind us, and I drop my bag by the entry table. The place is Ryan's through and through. Posters from his film fests on the walls, a stack of scripts on the coffee table.

Not luxurious, but solid. Rent's covered by his paychecks. Without him... I'd be back in university halls, scraping by.

I head straight for the bathroom, twisting the tap to splash cold water on my face. It shocks the skin, but not the thoughts.

He's not good for you.Who? Why?

By the time I pat dry and step out, Ryan's sprawled on the sofa, remote in hand, football blaring. Some playoff game, cheers roaring from the TV. He's kicked off his shoes, feet up, beer cracked open.

"Rough day on set." He mutters without looking up. "That DP's a nightmare. Wants every shot like it's Oscar bait."

I hover in the doorway, twisting my shirt hem. Hunger gnaws, but so does the weight of the day. "Yeah? Sounds brutal."

A beat, then, "You wanna help with dinner? I can chop veggies if you handle the pasta."