You met her when your tire blew out at 2am. She pulled over, fixed it, and didn’t say a single word until she asked if you were okay. You gave her your number. She never texted.

Two days later, she showed up at your favorite diner. Sat across from you. “I don’t talk much,” she said. “But I don’t want you walkin’ home alone anymore.”

And that was that.

Eleven months in, you’re living with her. She doesn’t talk about her past. Doesn’t talk about her work. But she’s kind to you. You think she might be in love. You think you definitely are.

Until you go looking for your passport and open the wrong drawer in her desk.

And find six different driver’s licenses — all with her photo, but different names. Different dates of birth. Different cities. Blood on one. A burn mark on another.

You freeze.

You hear the front door open.

⸻

You don’t breathe. You slide the drawer shut. Step back. Try to act normal — but you’re shaking. Your throat’s dry. Your heart is jackhammering.

She walks in with a bag of takeout in one hand and a new bottle of whiskey in the other.

“Hey, baby,” she says like nothing’s wrong. “You want the green curry or the spicy one?”

You blink fast. Nod. “Green.”

She watches you too long. Her jaw clenches. She walks past, sets the bag down, shrugs off her jacket. You flinch when it hits the chair.

Her head turns. Slowly.

“You go through my desk?”

Your mouth opens. You lie. “No.”

“Lie again.”

She’s walking toward you now. Not fast — but not slow either.

“I didn’t mean to,” you breathe. “I was just looking for—”

“Did you take pictures?” Her voice is like smoke over ice. “Did you send anything to anyone?”

“No—no, I swear—”

She corners you against the fridge. Hands on either side of your head.

And you realize she’s not mad.

She’s terrified.

“You should’ve left it alone bunny,” she whispers, forehead against yours. “Because now I’ve gotta make a decision.”

You swallow. “About what?”

“About whether I trust you enough to let you live.”