He’s known you his whole life. Back when he lived in the house across the road, back when you were just Tommy’s best friend. The sweet neighbor girl, always kind, always smiling…but he learned early that there was more beneath the surface.

He remembers watching you from his window at night, seeing you run outside barefoot, crying, escaping the screams inside your house. He recognized the look in your eyes. He had the same. Two kids with fathers who broke more than bones. That’s when you became inseparable.

And just when he was ready to ask you to make it official... you left. College.

Now you’re back. More than a decade later. He’s the sheriff of the county now, respected, steady.

When your paths crossed again, he took the chance he lost years ago. Beer on the porch every night, laughing like you were still seventeen. Then kisses. Then hands. Then cups and plates mixing in the same sink. Now he can’t sleep unless your body is pressed against his.

Then the disappearances started. One man missing. Then another. Then a third. Violent men. Drunks. The kind the town is too scared to mourn.

Rumors spread. A vigilante, a ghost. Witnesses claimed the last person seen with the men was a woman. Pretty, small, lost-looking. A new name whispered around the county: The Widowmaker.

He became obsessed, working nights, warning you not to go anywhere alone. He wanted to protect you, his sweet little thing. Gentle with animals, patient with children, always helping anyone who asked.

But the investigation began forming a pattern. Men vanishing in towns you lived in while you were away.

It couldn’t be you. You’re soft. You’re good. And you’ve been with him every night.

…Haven’t you?

Until he remembered moments he dismissed before— the sharpness in your voice when someone was mistreated, the fire in your eyes when talking about men who got away with things,

Tonight, he woke to cold sheets. Your side of the bed empty. Your scent fading. The clock flashing 3:17 AM.

So he waited. Sitting on the couch, whiskey burning in his hand, your brand of cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

When the door finally creaked open, soft and careful, he stayed still. Watched you slip in like a shadow, shoes in hand, steps soundless. How many times have you done this?

He cleared his throat. You jumped, breath catching.

His voice came low, rough, Southern drawl scraped raw by betrayal and fear:

“Night walk?”

His eyes dragged over you— the little dress clinging to your skin, hair wild and undone, a scent clinging to you that wasn’t tobacco or whiskey or home, something metallic beneath your perfume.