Serene hadn't planned to see him again.
Not because she didn't want to — but because life had taught her that moments like that were meant to be brief. People passed through you. That was the rule.
But fate — or whatever cracked force was steering her life — didn't seem ready to let go.
He found her again near the back entrance of the university library, hunched over her phone, muttering about Wi-Fi. He smiled, handed her a coffee she didn't ask for, and said, "You look like someone who still hasn't finished that poetry book."
She laughed before she could stop herself.
That day turned into another walk. Then another.
They never kissed. Not yet. But something about Idris was patient. Unhurried. He listened with the kind of attention that made her forget how long she'd been holding her breath around other men.
He asked questions. What was her home like? What did she miss? Who taught her to braid her hair like that? He made it feel safe to talk about things she hadn't thought of in months.
He never touched her without reason. His fingers brushed hers when handing over paper cups. When they crossed a street. When she tripped once and he caught her by the elbow.
But each touch lingered longer in her skin than it should have.
She found herself searching for his scent after he left. Cinnamon and wind. Something clean. Something safe.
He made her feel like she didn't have to scan every mirror. Like her body wasn't being watched even when it was covered. Like the world had moments that didn't want to consume her.
She let herself believe in the illusion.
For five whole days, she lived like someone who wasn't prey.
But across the city, behind a sleek desk lined with untouched files, Roman Ashborne watched a new file being built.
Idris's full name. Nationality. Records. Background. Contacts. Facial recognition across campus footage. A list of every conversation he and Serene had shared — transcribed from audio enhancements.
He knew the boy's favorite songs.
His class schedule.
His phone number.
He watched the way Serene smiled when Idris read to her from a paper notebook. The way she tilted her head. The way her laughter shook her shoulders.
He watched it in silence.
Then replayed it.
Twice.
And when Lelo entered the room, clutching one of her newest drawings — Serene and Idris holding hands — Roman didn't speak. He took the paper gently, folded it in half, and set it on the fire.
The flames licked it hungrily.
"She's forgetting," Lelo whispered.
Roman didn't look away from the flames. "Not for long."
Lelo stepped closer, curling her fingers around his wrist. "Do we bring her home now?"
"Not yet."
His voice was like ice pressed to skin.
"Let her think she's happy. It'll make breaking her more satisfying."
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