Amelia's POV
I woke in the half-light, the city still hushed before dawn, and for a moment I reached instinctively to the other side of the bed. Empty.
The silence pressed in until I caught the faint sound of clicking keys from the living room. Brandon.
I padded softly to the doorway, my ankle still tender, and froze. He was hunched over my laptop, the screen glowing against his pale face. His eyes moved quickly, his expression intent, almost guarded. When he heard me shift, he snapped the lid halfway down and looked up too fast.
"You should be resting," he said, his voice calm, too calm.
A prickle of unease slid across my skin. My chest tightened. Why didn't he say what he was doing? Why close the screen like that?
"What are you working on?" My tone was sharper than I intended, but the suspicion had already rooted itself in me.
"Just… reviewing some things in the accounts again. Making sure we didn't miss anything yesterday." His explanation was reasonable. It was exactly what he'd promised to help me with. But something in the way he avoided my eyes made me step back, like I was teetering at the edge of an old, familiar trap.
Mark had behaved with that same smoothness. My parents had smiled through lies, and I'd believed them because I wanted to.
"Amelia?" Brandon's voice softened, uncertain. "What's wrong?"
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold. "Nothing," I lied.
But inside, the thought whispered with poisonous persistence: What if he isn't who I think he is? What if I've trusted the wrong man, again?
Brandon left for work in the morning with his usual quiet smile, the kind that should have reassured me. Instead, it left me uneasy. I stood at the window long after he'd gone, watching the street until he was out of sight. For the first time since meeting him, I felt relief at being alone.
But the silence wasn't calm anymore — it clawed at me. I drifted through my flat, unable to settle. Every shadow felt like it held something hidden, every sound from the street below made me tense. My gaze kept returning to the table where my laptop sat closed, the faint smudge of his fingerprints still on the lid.
He'd been helping me — working through the accounts, piecing together what had gone wrong. He'd risked himself for me, stood by me, held me when I broke. I knew that. But then why did I keep replaying the way he closed the screen so quickly last night? Why did it look like he had something to hide?
I told myself I was being paranoid. Trauma had rewired my mind to expect betrayal, to see danger where none existed. I tried to reason with myself. He'd been helping me. He'd given up his time, his sleep, even his safety to protect me. He'd risked himself against Mark. He'd held me when I cried. He loves me, some part of me whispered.
But another voice, sharper, darker, cut through: So did Mark. At least he said he did. So did your parents, and look what they've done.
I pressed my hands to my temples and tried to breathe, but my body wouldn't settle. My flat, what should be my sanctuary, suddenly felt invaded by doubt.
Brandon's mug still sat in the sink, his scent hung in my room. Ordinary, harmless things — but I couldn't stop wondering how long they would stay, how long before he, too, walked away or turned against me.
By the time his key rattled in the lock that evening, I was sitting rigid on the sofa, a book open in my lap, though I hadn't read a word. He came in, weary but smiling, carrying the easy warmth that had once soothed me.
"Hey," he said softly, dropping his bag by the door. "I brought us some dinner," he said, holding up a plastic bag full of take out containers.
I forced my lips into a smile. It felt stiff, unnatural. He didn't notice.
But the thought gnawed at me all the same: What if I've been wrong about him, too?
The following morning, light filtered weakly through the curtains, casting pale streaks across the living room floor. Brandon was already in the kitchen, moving about with quiet purpose, the clink of mugs and the low hum of the kettle a familiar rhythm. Normally, it soothed me. This morning, it grated.
"Coffee?" he called, cheerful in that calm way of his.
"Yes," I said, but the word came out clipped.
He appeared a moment later, placing a steaming mug in front of me on the table. His smile was soft, tentative. "You didn't sleep much, did you?"
"I'm fine." The answer was too quick, too sharp.
Brandon hesitated, studying me with that concerned look that usually made me feel safe. Now it made me bristle. "I can take a half-day, if you want. Stay here with you."
I shook my head, avoiding his eyes. "You don't need to babysit me. I'll manage."
His brow furrowed, but he didn't argue. He just sipped his coffee and leaned back, the picture of patience. And somehow, that only made me angrier. Why was he always so calm? Why didn't he ever slip, show me something real?
When he finally stood to leave, pulling on his coat, he bent to kiss my forehead. I turned my head at the last second, pretending to be distracted by my phone. The gesture didn't go unnoticed; he froze, hurt flashing across his features before he masked it with another of those gentle smiles.
"I'll be back early," he said quietly.
"Don't rush," I replied, my voice deliberately even, though inside, guilt twisted hard.
After the door closed behind him, I sat with my untouched coffee, staring at the faint ring of steam curling upward. I hated myself for pushing him away. But the fear gnawed louder than reason: Trust had already broken me once. Could I survive it shattering again?