Ridge straightened up, nodding toward the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower now," he said, his voice lighter, though his gaze lingered on me for a moment, as if checking I was okay before turning away.

I nodded, forcing a small smile as he passed me. The tension from earlier still hung in the air, heavy and unresolved, but there was also a quiet understanding—an unspoken agreement that we both needed time to process everything.

I moved to the top of the bed, sinking into the softness of the pillows. They offered temporary comfort, but my mind refused to settle. The events of the night kept replaying in an endless loop—Amber missing, the hooded figure, the alley, the rain. It felt like a nightmare I couldn't wake from, each detail sharper and more haunting with every replay.

The muffled sound of the shower filled the room, the steady rhythm of water hitting the tiles almost hypnotic. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the sound, but every time I did, Amber's face appeared—her laugh, her bright eyes full of life. And then, like a shadow creeping into the edges of my thoughts, the hooded figure appeared, dark and oppressive, his presence choking the air around me.

I rubbed my hands over my face, desperate to shake the images, but they clung to me like a second skin. The weight of my guilt and fear pressed down, suffocating. Could I have stopped this? Should I have warned someone sooner about the man in the hood? Was it too late now?

The questions gnawed at me until I bit my lip, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over. I had to believe Amber was still out there. The police would find her before it was too late. They had to. But then Brad's face flashed in my mind—his empty eyes, his life stolen—and my chest tightened with the fear that Amber's story might end the same way.

The bathroom door creaked open, pulling me from my thoughts. Ridge stepped out, his hair damp, a towel slung loosely around his hips. His expression softened when he caught my gaze, and he gave me a small smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You alright?" he asked softly, his voice low as he walked toward the bed.

I nodded, but I didn't trust myself to speak. My throat felt tight, my emotions too raw. Ridge sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He didn't speak right away, just looked at me, his brow furrowed, his concern evident in the way his hand brushed absently against his knee.

After a moment, he broke the silence, his tone lighter but still careful. "You should try to get some sleep. You've been through hell tonight."

I rubbed my arms, nodding faintly but unable to let go of the images still cycling through my mind. "I don't think I can," I admitted quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Ridge tilted his head slightly and then moved to his chest of drawers, grabbing clothing out and pulling it on, as he said, "It's okay if you can't. Just rest, even if you don't sleep."

I shook my head, the thought of closing my eyes and facing my nightmares making my stomach twist.

The sharp vibration of my phone made me jump, the sound cutting through the quiet. I grabbed it, hope flickering for a moment as I saw the screen. But it wasn't Campbell—it was Loretta. My chest tightened as her name glared back at me. I cancelled the call, but she rang again. And again. One after another, the calls kept coming.

"What's your number?" I asked, my voice low, passing my phone to Ridge. He took it without a word, his fingers moving quickly as he texted Campbell before handing it back to me. I turned it off, needing the silence.

A few moments later, Ridge's phone buzzed. The jarring sound made my pulse race.

"Hello?" Ridge answered quickly, his voice steady but sharp with urgency. "DCI Campbell? Yes, I'll pass you over." He handed me the phone, his eyes watching me closely.

"Hi," I croaked, my voice cracking halfway through. "Have you found her?"

The line crackled, Campbell's voice cutting through the noise of voices and shuffling feet in the background. "We've found her phone, but, Sam, she's not here."

The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. "So what now? What do we do?" I asked, my voice rising as I rubbed my face, trying to hold myself together.

"Sam, we do nothing," Campbell said firmly, though her tone softened slightly. "Me and my team—we're going to do our best to find her. Please, Sam, stay safe."

The line went dead, and I stared at the phone in my hand as my vision blurred. The weight of her words sank in.

This was all my fault.

The sob broke free before I could stop it. Ridge moved toward me, his arms wrapping around me as I crumbled. His touch was steady, grounding, as he brushed my hair back from my face.

"This isn't your fault," he murmured, his voice gentle but firm, like he could see the guilt eating me alive. His eyes searched mine, as though he wanted to say more, but the weight of the night hung heavily between us, unspoken.

My body felt like it was sinking under the weight of exhaustion, but my mind refused to stop. Fear, guilt, and unanswered questions whirled in an endless loop. Amber was still out there. The hooded figure still lurked in the shadows of my thoughts, his presence dark and oppressive.

Every second that ticked by felt like time slipping away, like another chance lost. I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Amber's face—her laugh, her bright eyes. And then the shadow of him, watching, waiting.

I rubbed my hands over my face, the ache in my chest growing sharper. Could I have stopped this? Should I have warned someone sooner? My own hesitation, my fear—was it too late now?

The thought gripped me, icy and unforgiving. Tears burned at the edges of my eyes as I fought to keep breathing, to keep hoping. But hope felt fragile, like something that could break apart at any moment.

I lay back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of Ridge's presence beside me. The room was filled with a quiet that should have been comforting, but it only seemed to amplify the storm raging inside me.

"How did you and Amber meet?" Ridge asked into the silence of the room.

"Year one of primary school," I said, smiling faintly at the memory. "I dropped my break-time biscuit, and she broke hers in half and let me share."

Ridge tilted his head, his expression softening. "That's a long time to be friends."

"We had a little blip in our friendship in year five when a new boy joined the school—Craig Waterhouse. We both had a crush on him."

"Waterhouse?" Ridge murmured, sitting up straighter. "That name sounds familiar."

I hesitated, the lightness of the memory fading. "He died," I said bleakly, stopping Ridge as I noticed him glance toward the papers on his bedside table. "A hit-and-run when we were in year eleven."

Ridge froze, his hand halting mid-reach. "Shit," he breathed.

"We'd been dating"—I used air quotes—"since year five. He'd been at mine, spending time with me, and he left walking down the lane. And somehow..." I broke off, my voice faltering.

Ridge didn't push, but his expression shifted, the sharpness in his gaze softening into something gentler. He stayed silent, waiting, giving me space to finish.

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge. "He'd been fine when he left. We'd been laughing, talking about nothing—like we always did. And then he was gone." My voice cracked, the words falling from my lips like they'd been trapped for years. Ridge turned to lie on his side facing me his eyes were so soft I couldn't believe how scared of him I'd been a few days ago. 

"You know," I said, my voice quiet and hesitant, "you're the first person I've kissed since Craig." The words felt heavy leaving my mouth, but I pushed on, needing him to understand. "It's not about you—it's not about now—I just... I haven't been able to go there, not with anyone. Not since him."

I looked down at my hands, twisting them together. The admission felt raw, like peeling back a layer of myself I wasn't sure I wanted Ridge to see. 

"Sam," he said softly, the single word carrying more understanding than I'd thought possible. He shifted slightly, his hand brushing against mine—not grasping it, just there, a silent offer of comfort if I wanted it.

Ridge got up from the bed, turned off the light, and then settled back in next to me. "You should get some sleep," he said gently.

I stared up at the ceiling, my mind refusing to quiet despite the exhaustion pulling at every muscle in my body. Next to me, Ridge was silent but restless, the soft rustling of the sheets as he shifted betraying his own struggle to find peace. The weight of the night hung heavily between us—Amber still missing, the hooded figure haunting the edges of my thoughts. Every second that passed felt like a countdown, the urgency gnawing at my insides.

Ridge's hand moved gently, brushing my hair away from my face. His touch was soft, almost absent-minded, as though he was lost in his own thoughts, but it was comforting. I closed my eyes, hoping the small gesture might help me drift off. But the images of Amber—alone and afraid—swirled in my mind like a relentless tide.

I turned my head slightly, catching Ridge's profile in the dim light filtering through the curtains. His face was set in quiet determination, his brow furrowed as he stared at the ceiling. And then, for what felt like the first time in hours, my gaze settled on the scar that cut across his eyebrow, traced a line under his eye, and continued across his cheekbone.

I'd noticed it the first day I saw him, but I'd become so used to it that I'd stopped wondering. Now, in the stillness, my curiosity got the better of me.

"Ridge?" I whispered, my voice barely louder than the rain pattering against the window.

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine. "Yeah?"

"Can I ask?" My voice trailed off as my fingertips brushed his face, tracing the path of the scar.

"How I got the scar?" He finished for me, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'm surprised you lasted this long without asking."

Ridge's touch was gentle as he stroked my palm, his eyes shadowed with something deeper—something unspoken, but heavy.

"Before I became a private investigator, I had a stint with the Met Police in London," he began, shifting to lie back, his face slipping into the shadows of memory.

"I grew up on the White City Estate in West London," he said, his voice steady but tinged with something I couldn't quite place. "It was rough, a lot of council housing, a lot of people just trying to survive. My mum had me when she was fifteen, so it was all we could afford. I didn't grow up like the other kids, though. I kept my head down, stayed out of trouble. But I made myself look the part—sovereign rings, a slash shaved in my eyebrow. I had the look they needed when I joined the police."

His jaw tightened as he spoke, his fingers brushing absently over the scar. I could feel his body tense, the weight of whatever he was about to share pressing down between us. My breath caught in my throat, anticipation coiling tightly in my chest.

"I was fresh, green but eager, which made me the perfect candidate for undercover work. They embedded me with a gang involved in drugs and sex trafficking—deeply embedded." He paused, his voice dropping lower. "I was in for a year and three months."

I could hear the faint tremor in his voice now, an undercurrent of emotion barely masked by his calm exterior. He paused, his gaze locking onto mine, as if he were searching for something, gauging my reaction. A shiver ran through me, though I wasn't entirely sure if it was from the story or the way his eyes seemed to hold me in place.

"But we were compromised. There was a mole in our unit," he said, his voice growing colder. "Our plans leaked, leading to an ambush that should have been my end." His fingers grazed the scar just under his eye, and I could almost feel the heat from the burn he described, the sharp, visceral pain.

"They knew I was police," Ridge continued, his tone steady despite the weight of the memory. "They cornered me, tied me up, and one of them—" He hesitated, his hand brushing over the scar again. "One of them pressed a barbecue fork to my face, threatening to gouge my eye out. He was about to do it too."

I sucked in a sharp breath, the image his words painted vivid and unrelenting. My stomach twisted, a sickly knot forming as I imagined the scene. His words hung heavy in the air, each syllable weighted with pain he wasn't fully showing. He spoke as if recounting someone else's story, distant and detached, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

"The police arrived just in time to prevent that," Ridge continued after a moment, his voice quieter now, as though the memory itself exhausted him. "But not before I was permanently marked." His fingers lingered on the scar, and I couldn't help but wonder if he still felt the phantom heat, the memory burned into him as deeply as the scar itself.

The silence between us was deafening. My throat tightened as I fumbled for words that wouldn't come. What could I say? What could anyone say to something like that? My gaze shifted to his scar, now illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. It felt like a visible reminder of everything he'd survived, everything he couldn't forget.

"I'm sorry," I said finally, my voice barely audible. The words felt inadequate, almost hollow, but they were all I could manage.

Ridge's lips quirked upward in the faintest semblance of a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't be," he said softly, his tone almost resigned. "It's part of who I am now."

The haunted look in his eyes made my chest ache. For the first time, I realised just how much he carried, how much of himself he kept hidden. He had been so guarded, so closed off, but now I could see that the scars ran far deeper than just skin. They etched into his past, his choices, and the pain he wouldn't let anyone else bear.

And yet, as much as his vulnerability disarmed me, a flicker of doubt still lingered. The man in front of me was layered with complexities I wasn't sure I could unravel. Empathy warred with mistrust, leaving me suspended between understanding him and still holding onto caution.

"After that, I didn't feel right working amongst the police anymore. The betrayal... it was not just physical but mental. The very people who were supposed to have my back had sold me out." His voice was bitter now, a simmering anger just beneath the surface. "I couldn't stay, not knowing how deep the rot went within the force. They never found the mole either, which just made it that little bit worse."

I swallowed hard, my mind spinning. The image of him, broken and betrayed, conflicted with the hardened man I'd met just hours ago. He seemed... different now. Less of the threat I had perceived him to be and more—human. Yet, something about his world still felt sharp-edged, as though the darkness he described had left a permanent mark on him.

"Leaving the Met was my only escape. As a private investigator, I operate on my own terms, trusting no one but myself. It's isolating, yes, but it's also straightforward—no blurred lines, no bureaucratic lies. Just the pursuit of justice for those who have nowhere else to turn." His voice  slightly sarcastic at the last part, though the bitterness still lingered.

His words hung heavy in the air, settling around us like a shadow. My chest tightened as I found myself grappling with emotions I hadn't anticipated. My heart ached for him—for the man who had suffered so much—but it didn't erase the lingering unease I felt. I didn't fully trust him, not yet. His world was darker than mine, and I could feel its edges creeping in, threatening to engulf me.

"You should try and get some sleep," he murmured gently, his fingers brushing against mine lightly. The warmth of his touch startled me, not for its tenderness, but for the way it quieted the storm in my chest, if only for a moment.

I hesitated, my mind racing, unable to fully comprehend the weight of what he'd shared. How could I sleep now? The room felt heavier, smaller, as if Ridge's story had brought all the darkness of his past into this very space. My mind replayed his words, the haunting image of the scar etched into my memory. But my body, betraying me, felt the pull of exhaustion.

I shuffled back under the covers, moving just enough to silently invite Ridge to do the same. His presence, which had once filled me with dread, was now oddly comforting. The steady rhythm of his breathing beside me began to lull my frantic thoughts, though they didn't disappear entirely.

As I lay there, the darkness seemed to press in closer. The echoes of Ridge's story and the weight of my own fears swirled together, making it hard to tell where one ended and the other began. My eyelids grew heavy, and despite the chaos inside me, the relentless pull of sleep became impossible to resist. Fragmented thoughts and blurred emotions lingered at the edge of my consciousness until, finally, I surrendered.