Chapter 2 — Aven

Zayden has the kind of smile that makes you forget the world is cruel. It’s soft, deliberate, and painfully gentle—the kind of smile that convinces you monsters don’t exist. Maybe that’s why I trusted him so easily. Because when he looks at me, I see calm where others would see danger.

We met a year ago in a bookstore. I was reaching for a novel on the highest shelf when his hand brushed mine. He apologized, his voice quiet, smooth, and polite. I remember thinking his eyes looked tired, like he’d seen too much. Maybe that’s what drew me in—his quiet sadness, the kind you want to heal.

Now, I can’t imagine a day without him.

He doesn’t talk much about his past, and I never push. I’ve learned that silence can be a kind of trust too. When he disappears for hours, I tell myself he’s busy. When his hands come home cold, I tell myself it’s the weather. I don’t ask questions because I’m afraid of the answers.

Tonight, he’s sitting on my couch, the dim light painting soft shadows across his face. I watch him scroll through his phone, thumb moving in slow, steady motions.

“Who are you texting?” I ask, half teasing.

He looks up immediately. His gaze is unreadable, calm as still water. Then he smiles, just slightly. “Work,” he says. “A client needed something.”

“Oh.” I nod, smiling too, pretending I’m not disappointed. He never lies outright—just enough to make me believe.

He stands, slips his phone into his pocket, and walks toward me. “You think too much, Aven,” he murmurs, his voice low, threaded with warmth. “You worry even when there’s no reason.”

“I just miss you,” I admit. “You’ve been distant lately.”

He tilts my chin up. “I’m here now,” he whispers, and kisses my forehead.

And just like that, the ache fades. His touch always does that—erases doubt, replaces it with longing. It’s a dangerous kind of comfort, the kind that feels like safety while it kills you slowly.

Later, after he leaves, I stay by the window, watching the lights shimmer across the street. The night feels heavier without him, quieter in the wrong way. My reflection looks lonely in the glass, but I tell myself it’s fine. He’ll call. He always does.

My phone buzzes. A message from Zayden: Lock your doors. Sleep early.

I smile to myself. “Always protective,” I whisper, not knowing what his hands have touched tonight, or whose name he whispered before mine.

I love him too much to wonder.

There are parts of Zayden I’ll never understand—dark corners I pretend not to see. Maybe love isn’t about knowing everything. Maybe it’s about choosing to believe what doesn’t hurt.

Outside, a siren screams in the distance. I close the window, pretending it’s not a sign.

Zayden once told me, “Some people love softly, some love violently.”

I didn’t understand then.

But maybe I will—when love finally decides which one kills me first.

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