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Vince flinches as an officer grabs his arms, and I feel a slow, quiet satisfaction settle in my chest. My hands tighten around the steering wheel.

‘Ash?’ she asks.

I give her a slight shrug. ‘Yeah, I know them. They got what was coming to them,’ I mutter lightly. My voice is calm and controlled.

Nothing about this is accidental. I never leave anything to chance.

Bryn glances down at her lap, maybe sensing the tension I won’t explain. She doesn’t ask, and I don’t offer. Some things don’t need to be put into words. I keep cruising down the street, and the flashing lights fade behind us.

Soon enough, she’ll understand there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her safe.

43

BRYN

Now

It’s been a month or so since I moved in. A month that feels like it’s passed in both the blink of an eye and a lifetime. Living here with Ash has been incredible. I catch myself smiling for no reason at all. He’s sweet and romantic, and I adore that side of him just as much as the darker one. I love the way he makes coffee exactly as I like it, the notes he leaves on the counter wishing me a good day, the quiet mornings when we lie tangled in the sheets, laughing at nothing and everything all at once.

Evenings blur together in the best way. We go for dinners at tiny restaurants and walk through the streets under soft lamplight, his hand always finding mine without me having to search for it. The apartment feels alive now, filled with his warm presence and his scent lingering on my clothes, on the lounge, and in the kitchen.

There have been nights I can barely breathe because of him and the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. There are quiet, heated moments that leave me flushed and trembling; laughter and teasing and whispered words that feel like they could hold the world together. I’ve never been this comfortable with someone. Never this happy.

I like the way he lets me pick the movie even though he complains the entire time, the way he insists I sit closer to him on the couch, his little touches that linger just a second too long. Living with him has become ordinary in all the right ways. It’s the kind of ordinary I never knew I wanted but now can’t imagine living without.

Glancing around the apartment at the scattered clothes, the mugs left out, the soft light that spills across the counter where we sit for breakfast, I realise how much has changed. This place used to feel cold and empty, but now it holds warmth in every corner. His black walls and sleek furniture are softened by the colours I’ve brought in, the little things that mark my presence, but it’s more than that. The atmosphere itself feels lighter; it’s as if he’s lighter. He’s different. I watch him now, and the way he moves through the apartment is relaxed. He smiles when I catch him staring at me, and his laughter spills more easily than I ever thought it would. He’s gentler, more open, and his possessiveness is tempered by tenderness, as if living with me has blunted some of the sharp edges I thought would never soften. There’s a warmth in his eyes I didn’t see before, and it feels as if even the apartment is holding onto that, shining it back at me.

Every corner of the place is filled with pieces of him, and every piece of him is now a part of me. I never want this phase of our relationship to end, because this life, this apartment, and this man here with me, are more than I ever dreamt of. I’m tired of pretending he wasn’t my missing piece all this time.

He pulls on his hoodie then ties his sneakers, appearing calm and focused.

‘Leg day,’ he mutters, mostly to himself. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He glances up just long enough to catch my eyes.

‘Have fun,’ I reply.

He kisses the top of my head, and then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him, and a quiet hush settles in the apartment. I sink onto the lounge and stretch out, letting my thoughts drift, and for a moment, the apartment feels like a sanctuary. I stretch, rolling onto my side and pushing myself up off the couch. The apartment is tranquil, and the soft light of mid-morning spills through the windows. I clear some mugs and a stray pair of socks from the coffee table, ready to start my day.

That’s when something catches my eye: a journal, wedged inside a pile of his clothes on the chair. It’s been tucked away slightly, as if he didn’t want it in plain sight. I pick it up. Pieces of You is written across the cover in a messy scrawl. Curiosity takes over. I carry it to the couch and open it, the pages soft beneath my fingers. My eyes roam over the words.

I’ve loved her from the very beginning. Even when I didn’t know what it was, even when I told myself to walk away, she lingered in my chest and in my thoughts – in the spaces I thought were mine alone. Every smile, every glance, and every laugh I stole without her noticing, they were all pieces of her I didn’t realise I’d been collecting for myself.

I pause, my heart hammering. This isn’t just a journal. This is … us. It’s our story from his eyes, written down and laid bare; it’s the very story he mentioned when we first reunited after I got into town. I swallow, my fingers tracing the edges of the pages. Flinging myself back onto the lounge, I settle in and start reading.

Hours slip by almost unnoticed. The sunlight shifts across the apartment as I become lost in his words. He remembers every glance, every touch, the teasing, the laughter, the stolen nights, and the small moments. It’s as if I’m living it all again, but from the perspective of the man who’s been so impossibly in love with me all this time.

When my stomach growls, I get up reluctantly and wander into the kitchen for snack. I let myself stretch, take a quick break to relieve myself, and then return to the couch, sliding back into the folds of the afternoon as if nothing exists outside the pages in front of me.

I keep reading. I can’t stop. It’s just Ash and me, his voice whispering to me from the paper, reminding me how much he’s been holding inside, how fiercely he’s loved me, and how long he waited. My eyes freeze on a page.

I watched him, studied his schedule, and observed the way he touched her. He smiled at her in ways that a stepfather shouldn’t. Every move he made, every glance, I tracked it. Now that her sister was no longer around, nothing stood between him and her.

But I would not allow anyone to come between us again. Nothing that belongs to me will ever be harmed, challenged, or taken. So I ended it. Not carelessly, and not in a moment of anger. I made sure it was done right, and once it was over, the world fell silent in the way it should have always been. The danger was gone, and she was safe – entirely, perfectly safe.

It should have been enough. I thought that once the danger was gone we would be able to be together, but she disappeared. Just like that, she vanished into the world, taking herself to a place I couldn’t reach as she cut me out of her life. I was powerless.

I waited. I kept watching, kept hoping, and in the quiet moments, let myself imagine her face, her smile, and her laugh. She belonged to me even when she was out of reach. Every day without her burned like a fire I couldn’t put out.

Now, finally, she’s here.