The sun had dipped just below the horizon, casting hues of lavender and rose gold across the skies above their coastal town. The warm evening breeze carried the scent of sea salt and wild blossoms, swirling gently through the open windows of their home. Inside, the soft glow of golden lamplight bathed the living room, and every crevice of their shared space hummed with a quiet, comforting warmth.
Serra sat on the floor, legs tucked under her, surrounded by open books, scraps of paper, and a half-finished sketch. She was lost in it—her expression tranquil, a gentle crease on her brow as she shaded in the lines of a small, delicate shell she had picked up during yesterday's walk. The rhythm of pencil to paper grounded her; in moments like these, the world fell silent.
From behind, Vince leaned on the doorframe, watching her with a silent reverence. The way her hair caught the light, how the fabric of her soft sweater hung just slightly off her shoulder, exposing skin kissed by the fading sun—it made something in him ache, not with desire, but with profound tenderness. This version of her, quiet and at peace, was rare. And he didn't dare interrupt.
Until she noticed him.
"You're staring again," Serra murmured, voice light, teasing, without looking up.
"I have every reason to," he replied, and stepped into the room.
She turned, half-smiling, eyes meeting his. There were still traces of weariness in her gaze—shadows that came and went—but they no longer swallowed her whole. Not with Vince there, anchoring her.
"You should be careful," she said, setting the pencil down and stretching slightly. "Staring too long might make me suspicious."
"Suspicious of what?" he asked, stepping closer. She tilted her head.
"That you've fallen too hard."
"I already have."
His voice was steady, quiet, but filled with something that made Serra's heart skip. That feeling, that overwhelming gentleness that wrapped itself around her like a blanket—so different from what she'd once known.
Vince settled beside her, cross-legged. He didn't reach for her, not yet. He always let her set the pace. And tonight, her fingers brushed his hand first. Light, hesitant. But real.
"Show me?" he asked, nodding toward the sketch.
Serra handed him the sketchbook. "It's not much."
"It's you," he said. "It's everything."
She watched him study her lines, his touch reverent. She never thought she could feel safe again in someone's presence. But with Vince, safety wasn't just a feeling. It was a truth she could finally believe in.
As dusk deepened, they moved to the couch. Serra curled up beside him, her head on his chest, the slow rhythm of his heartbeat grounding her. Vince wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple.
"I missed this," she whispered.
"I missed you."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was filled with shared breaths, comfort, healing.
He reached down and gently tugged the knitted throw over them both. The outside world melted away. There were no ghosts in this room. No monsters lurking in shadows. Only the soft rhythm of the sea outside, and the quiet rise and fall of their breathing in sync.
"Do you remember the first time I held your hand?" Vince asked softly, after a long moment.
Serra smiled against his chest. "At the bookstore. You pretended to need help reaching a book on the top shelf."
"I did need help. But maybe I chose that moment because I couldn't stop looking at you."
Her laughter was quiet and unguarded. "You were terrible at pretending."
"I just wanted to touch you," he murmured, brushing his lips against her hair.
They stayed like that as the stars began to emerge, one by one. The night outside thickened, but inside, everything glowed warm.
And yet—far beyond their home, beyond the soft walls of peace they'd built—something watched. A shadow in the wind. Eyes that hadn't forgotten. Obsession that hadn't died.
But for now, Serra didn't know. And Vince wouldn't let anything near her.
Not this time.
Not ever again.
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