I have a fake name, a duffel bag I never fully unpack, and four months of looking over my shoulder.
Clover Ridge was supposed to be temporary. Small. Forgettable. The kind of town where no one asks questions.
Then I noticed him — quiet, watchful, always at the edge of the room, like he already knew every secret I was trying to hide.
He didn’t expose me. He didn’t ask what I was running from.
He just started standing between me and the dark, asking for nothing at all.
I’ve learned the hard way what trusting the wrong person costs. I don’t know yet what trusting the right one might give me back.
But every night his quiet, careful eyes find mine, I understand a little less of my own resolve to keep running — and a little more of how badly I want to stay.
What happens when the safest place you’ve ever hidden turns out to be a man?
