I found a scorched candle on the floor.
A note that said,
"You play with fire long enough, you'll get burned."
The police didn't take it seriously.
But Sawyer Briggs did.
He showed up that afternoon—
Quiet, furious, already installing cameras.
I told him I didn't need protecting.
He said, "You're not staying here alone again."
Now I'm living in his cabin.
One bed. One locked door.
And a man who holds me through panic attacks like he's done it before—like it's muscle memory, not mercy.
The first night, I crawled into his bed after a nightmare.
The second, I kissed him.
He kissed me back like he'd been waiting for a reason to feel again.
Then the threat escalated.
He fought for me. Bled for me.
But when I pulled away and said,
"I don't need someone to burn the world down for me," he looked me in the eye and said,
"You're not a mission. You're everything I stopped letting myself want."
