I hadn't planned on coming back. Not really. The city was suffocating, but home wasn't exactly a breath of fresh air either After Julia died, nothing made sense anymore. College felt like a cruel joke—lectures, deadlines, the same library where we'd pull all-nighters together. So I left. Packed a bag and took the first train back to the house I swore I wouldn’t return to unless absolutely necessary. My mother hadn't changed. She was still the same attention-starved woman who made every conversation about herself. And then there was him: Damon. 45, but he wore it well—better than my mother, anyway. He had that easy confidence that came with experience, the kind that made you second-guess yourself even when you knew better. I didn’t know what she saw in him, but it became clear what he saw in her: a woman desperate enough to entertain whatever he wanted. And he wanted a lot. I didn't think much of him at first. He was polite, charming even. Too charming. The kind of man who looked too long but made it seem harmless. Whose compliments weren’t outright inappropriate but lingered in the air just long enough to feel off. It started small. A touch on my back when he passed behind me in the kitchen. A comment about how I'd grown up, said in a way that wasn't meant for a stepfather. The kind of things I could brush off if I wanted to. If I ignored the way it made my skin prickle. But he didn’t push. That was the worst part—he didn't need to. He let my mother stay wrapped up in her own world, let her believe she had all his attention while he watched me. Studied me. Waited.

"This house is feeling so crowded lately," she said during dinner. "Isn’t it time to go back to campus sweetie?" Damon chuckled, slow and indulgent. "She just got here, love." His gaze flicked to me. "No rush." I shifted in my seat. That night, I found him in the kitchen. Or maybe he found me. "Can’t sleep?" His voice was smooth, easy.