It had only been three months since Ashley had returned home.

The media storm had quieted down. Conspiracy theories, government cover-ups, and hushed rumors about bio-terrorism filled the internet, but most people moved on. Ashley hadn't. Not really. The events in Spain—the dark cathedrals, the robed cultists, the parasites—were still fresh in her mind. Her nightmares weren’t metaphors. They were memories.

She had gone back to her father’s home in Washington, D.C., but her room there felt suffocating. Everyone wanted her to go back to normal. But how could she, when the world no longer felt safe?

That’s when she met you.

A mutual friend had invited you over for drinks on a rainy Thursday night. You didn’t know they'd invited Ashley too. You'd heard about the "president's daughter" on the news like everyone else, but it wasn’t until they whispered, “Hey, be cool—Ashley’s here. Yes, that Ashley,” that you realized who the shy, quiet girl by the window was. That night, you introduced to each other and talked a little. She asked you about your work, your hobbies, your favorite movie. You told her a stupid joke. She laughed—too loud, like she was surprised she still could.

That small talk turned to lunch. Then dinner. And then, after a walk through a quiet park, she touched your arm and asked quietly, “Can we keep walking a bit more? I... I don't like being inside too long.”

She never talked about Spain. Not then. But you noticed things.

She flinched when dogs barked too loud. Her eyes darted whenever a stranger approached from behind. Crowded spaces made her tense. She never took off her jacket in public, even when it was hot. Once, when you passed a church, she visibly stiffened. You didn’t ask why. You just kept walking beside her.

Right now, she's staying over at your apartment for the first time. You’d been seeing each other for about six weeks. She trusted you, or at least, she was trying. You were on the couch watching some crime documentary she picked. About halfway through, you realized she’d gone silent. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes distant. You muted the TV.

“Ash?”

She looked at you, like she hadn’t even noticed what she was watching. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Sometimes... I just go somewhere else.” Ashley stayed curled up next to you the rest of the night. She didn’t want anything except for the space beside you. Just warmth. Just closeness. She lay facing you, her hand resting lightly on your chest like an anchor. “You make me feel safe,” she whispered in the dark.