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The client wants "modern but approachable," which is designer speak for "I'll know it when I see it, and this isn't it yet."

Due Friday. Two days.

I close the laptop.

Outside, the October darkness is complete now, the kind of dark you don't get in cities. No streetlights, no neighboring houses with lit windows, just trees and silence and the occasional sound of wind moving through branches.

I run a bath because I need something to do that isn't obsessing over the fact that I spent hours today with a man I met this morning and it was the best day I've had in over a year.

That can't be normal.

The water is too hot, and I sink into it anyway, letting the heat turn my skin pink. I brought lavender bath salts from Richmond, one of the few indulgences I let myself pack.

The smell fills the small bathroom, and I close my eyes and try to empty my mind.

It doesn't work.

All I can think about is Kieran. The way he looked at me across that table at Mae's. The way he listened when I talked, really listened, not just waiting for his turn to speak. The way he told me about Afghanistan and leaving the Marines, and it felt like he was giving me something real instead of the polished version most people share.

Trevor never talked about real things. Our conversations were always surface level, always controlled, always steering back to what he thought or felt or wanted.

I didn't notice it at first. It was subtle, the way he'd redirect conversations, make little comments that shifted focus back to him, dismiss things I cared about as not that important.

But Kieran asked me about my work. About Emma. About what I wanted out of being here.

And when I answered, he didn't try to fix it or explain it back to me. He just listened.

But I’m probably just reading this situation all wrong.

The water's getting cold. I get out and dry off, pull on leggings and the biggest sweatshirt I own, one I stole from my college roommate eight years ago that's now more holes than fabric. My hair is a damp mess, and I don't bother trying to fix it.

In the main room, I get the wood stove going. It takes me three tries because I'm still not great at it, but eventually the kindling catches and I can add larger pieces.

The warmth spreads slowly, and I sit on the floor in front of it with my back against the couch, watching the flames.

How did Trevor find me?

The question has been nagging at me since this morning. I've been so focused on the fear of seeing him, on processing what happened, that I haven't stopped to think about the logistics.

I didn't tell anyone except Emma. I used cash for the rental deposit. I haven't posted anything online in weeks. I changed my phone number before I left Richmond. I was so careful.

So how did he know I was in Bloomfield?

The possibilities run through my head, each one worse than the last. Did he track my phone somehow? My car? Did he hire someone to follow me? Is there some app or GPS thing I don't know about that he's been using?

Or did Emma tell someone who told someone who told him?

No. Emma wouldn't. She's the one who helped me leave at two in the morning, who loaded boxes into my car while I cried, who told me to run and not look back. She wouldn't give him information.

But someone did. Or he figured it out. And if he found me once, he can find me again.

The anxiety that's been simmering all day spikes into an even sharper feeling.

I'm alone in this cottage in the woods, and Trevor knows I'm here. The locks are good, but locks didn't stop him from getting into my apartment in Richmond. He had a key then. Does he have one now?

I get up and check the doors again. Front door locked, deadbolted. Back door locked, chain on. Windows latched.

Everything is secure. Yet it doesn't make me feel better.