MILLIE BROWN

Shane keeps running, and I shut my eyes as the wind slaps violently against my face from the speed. Every so often, he pulls me closer, my face smushed against his chest. In those moments, I hear his heartbeat—fast, erratic. Oddly, it sends a fluttering in my stomach, and goosebumps rise on my skin.

Why can't I think straight whenever Shane's involved? He always had this unsettling effect on me.

As Shane slows down, I finally look up and catch sight of a house—simple, yet captivating in its details. It's a single-story modern bungalow, the kind with a rustic charm.

The roof is flat with clean, sharp lines, extending slightly over the edges, casting a shadow to the structure. Large windows dominate the front, framed in dark metal, offering a glimpse into the airy, open space inside.

The house itself is painted a soft, off-white color, almost cream, that contrasts beautifully with the dark, slate-gray stone that lines the foundation and wraps around the lower half of the walls.

There's a porch with a single wooden swing swaying gently in the breeze, its slatted back painted a pale mint green that stands out against the muted tones of the house.

In front, a small garden bursts with life. Neatly arranged beds of lilies and daisies spill over the edges, their delicate petals catching the light of the setting sun. The white and yellow blooms create a calming, serene aura, the type of peacefulness that sneaks up on you. The air is thick with their scent, fresh and floral, wrapping around me like a familiar hug.

The more I look, the more the place tugs at my memory. The low, horizontal lines of the house, the abundance of flowers—it's eerily similar to a sketch Leah and I had drawn once, dreaming up a secret bunker where we could escape. somewhere safe and secluded, built with everything we loved.

My throat tightens. It's beautiful, and it unnerves me. Lilies and daisies were my favorite.

"What am I doing here?" I blurt, though fear of the answer grips me. Did he bring me here, in the middle of nowhere, to finish me off? Somewhere where no one would hear my screams?

"Oh, please don't be so dramatic," Shane says, carefully setting me down so I can stand on my own.

"What?" I blink in shock. Did I say that out loud?

"No, you didn't say that out loud." He rolls his eyes, clearly amused.

"You can hear my thoughts? Why? Stop listening!" Panic surges through me, and I cross my arms over my chest as if that could somehow block him from hearing anything else. Shane chuckles, a deep, amused sound.

"You think this is funny?" I snap, flustered by his reaction.

"Yes," he says, still laughing.

"Stop listening! Since when have you been eavesdropping on my thoughts? Isn't this some kind of privacy violation?"

"Is there something you don't want me to know?" His voice takes on a dangerous edge, making my pulse spike. Is there? Maybe the fact that I don't hate him as much as I should.

"Relax. I can't actually hear your thoughts," he says, his playful smirk returning. "Your face is just really expressive. It's easy to tell what you're thinking."

I look at him, and in a test, I start repeating in my head, "Shane is a psychopathic, murdering bastard," over and over, hoping for a reaction.

"You're cursing me out in your head, aren't you?" His lips twitch into a knowing smile. My eyes widen—so he can hear my thoughts?

"No, I can't hear your thoughts," he says, laughter bubbling up again. "I just know you well enough to guess. Like now, I can tell you don't believe a word I'm saying." He grins as I roll my eyes. Was I always this easy to read?

I don't think so.

"So why did you bring me here?" I ask, stepping back, unsure.

"I didn't bring you here to kill you," Shane replies, heading toward the door. He pulls it open, his movements as casual as if this were just any other day.

"After you, fireball," Shane says, and the rest of his words blur into the background the moment I hear the nickname. Fireball.

"I'm not going in," I respond, standing my ground like it's the last thing I can control.

Shane exhales, an exasperated sigh, before casually scooping me up over his shoulder like I weigh nothing more than a sack of flour.

"Shane, put me down this second!" I yell, slamming my fists into his broad back. It's like punching a wall of solid muscle, firm and unyielding. My fists barely make an impact as his strong grip tightens around my waist. His touch sends an involuntary spark through me, leaving my stomach fluttering against my will.

"Sure thing, fireball," he replies, the smirk almost audible in his voice, as he hauls me effortlessly into the house.

The sitting room opens up in front of me, and I freeze, stunned by what I see. A towering bookshelf stretches from floor to ceiling, completely empty as if waiting for life to fill it.

The fireplace, cold and dormant, sits beneath a wide-inch TV mounted on the wall. Above us, a massive chandelier commands the room, its glass prisms catching the faint light from the windows.

Plush-sectional sofas, covered with floral embroidered pillows, curve around a white rug so pristine it feels out of place.

A sleek, polished center table rests in the middle of the space, a solitary vase with lilies sitting on top.

A hallway off to the side leads deeper into the house, but I can already tell—this isn't just a coincidence. The outside had been eerily familiar, but this... this was the very image Leah and I had designed together.

The layout, the colors, the warmth of it all. It's as if I had built this house straight from my memory, save for Leah's quirks—the jukebox and pool table she insisted we include were missing. There's no trace of her, just me.

Did Leah tell Shane about our secret bunker? A part of me clings to the thought that this was something only Leah and I knew—our secret escape, a place no one else could touch.

"Are you going to stand there with your mouth hanging open?" Shane teases, his voice yanking me back to the present. He strides down the hallway with ease, leaving me feeling awkward and unsettled.

I force myself to move, trailing after him. We pass through the hallway until we reach the kitchen. The countertops are smooth marble, cool and glossy under the soft lights above.

White cabinets line the walls, their handles gleaming like polished silver. A large island stands in the center, with barstools tucked neatly under it. Everything is organized to perfection— from the fridge to the double oven .

Above the sink, a window offers a perfect view of the flower-filled yard.

Shane leans casually against the counter, his hand hovering over a coffee maker. "Coffee?" he asks, the playful glint in his eyes not matching the intensity of everything I've felt since I stepped inside this house.

The mention of coffee stirs something in me, a craving I haven't indulged in since that night. I can almost taste it—the rich, bitter warmth sliding down my throat. But I push the thought away.

"No, thank you," I respond, the words burning as I force them out, hating myself for turning it down.

"Suit yourself," he says, unbothered, opening a cabinet and pulling out a jar filled with coffee beans. He holds it up with a grin, like he's proud of his collection.

"What is this?" I snap, tired of the games, my patience wearing thin. "How about you stop pretending and tell me why I'm really here."

Shane pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Would it be too crazy to say I brought you here to try my coffee recipe?" His tone is playful, but there's something behind it, an undertone that suggests he might actually mean it.

I stare at him, dumbfounded. Did he really just say that? Coffee? Is that what this has all come down to—after everything he's done, after everything I've been through, he's here, talking about coffee?

"Are you serious?" I feel the anger boiling inside of me, my hands curling into fists. My voice rises, trembling with fury. "You killed my mother, kidnapped my best friend, and hunted me down... for coffee?" The words spill out, hot and uncontrollable, the frustration and pain tearing at my throat as I try to contain it.

Shane's face falters for a second, his playful demeanor slipping, before he gives me a look that leaves me speechless. His next words knock the breath out of me.

"You're still hung up on that?"