DAMEN
When Saturday comes around, one thought sticks - figuring out her workplace feels necessary now. The idea settles before coffee even finishes brewing. Not asking seems worse than knowing. A quiet push moves me toward answers instead of waiting. This path appears clearer once the sun rises. Finding that detail matters more than staying still.
A different kind of noticing. Nothing hidden, nothing watching from shadows. Just wanting to find her where the air feels lighter. Where she walks without looking over her shoulder. A place that doesn't make her fold inward. Anywhere the clock doesn't pull her toward a door.
Her smile - that true one - is what I hope to witness. Maybe nothing else compares. It could be the finest sight alive.
Finding my way into this feels impossible. Starting points? None show up. Kael's so-called digging gave just scraps - where she lives, schools attended, plus news of a sibling. Not one clue about jobs. Or places she might go when off duty. Weekend sightings? Still empty.
That time I messed up again. A thing Dad would absolutely hate hearing about.
I head over to The Shallows.
Twenty minutes out of Westbrook, give or take, once you cross the bridge cutting one place off from the next like a line drawn in wet soil. That stretch behind me now - the road taken when heading to the airport, also used going back to Grandma's former home after she moved out. Yet each time, just passing through. Eyes forward. Not pausing. Not turning.
Today I look.
What stands out first is how quiet The Shallows really is. Not scary like the stories say - more worn down than anything else. Kids at Westbrook talk big after dark, but their words fall flat under real daylight. Instead of danger, there's emptiness. Buildings sit hunched behind wooden planks where glass used to be. Paint curls off walls in brown strips, brittle as old paper. Time slows here - the kind you notice on cracked sidewalks and flickering street signs from decades ago. Main Street holds its breath, frozen mid-sentence around '95.
Moving slow, eyes moving across each marker. First, a place where clothes spin in circles. Next door, a store trading trinkets for cash. Further on, a small market - windows locked behind metal grids. Finally, tucked past cracked pavement, a quiet diner waits.
Lou's Diner.
That name sounds familiar. Back then, on that morning, she said it while we headed to the corner where buses pass. Four o'clock means I need to be there - Lou's waits. My shift starts soon.
A shadow among trees, I stand where the pavement ends. Stillness takes hold while cars pass by. Across the road, everything moves without me.
A dim glow spills from the window where a neon sign hums, off-kilter. Inside, booths line the walls like old habits. People sit apart, each at their own island of table. She moves among them, hands already knowing what comes next before the order's spoken. The place barely holds five people, maybe six if they don't mind sharing air
Mira.
Her jeans and diner t-shirt make up what she calls a uniform, hair tied neatly behind. A coffee pot in hand, she moves between tables without rush. One moment she's pouring into a cup near the window, where an older man sits alone. They exchange words like people who know each other slightly. Her mouth curves upward - not forced, nothing stiff like classroom mornings. This smile stays soft. It lingers longer than usual.
My eyes stay fixed. Staring feels impossible to stop.
A figure steps up next to her - slightly older, perhaps twenty-two or so, his gaze warm, built like someone who's spent years lifting heavy things. As he moves past, his hand brushes her arm, a remark slips out, she laughs, then my ribcage tightens around something sour and off-kilter.
He shows up again. Could be someone she works with. Maybe more than that. This idea sits like a rock in my chest.
That moment lingers, me stuck in place, weighing options - then a tap at the glass breaks it. A shape outside waits, motionless.
A sudden leap upward. Not metaphorical - feet leaving the ground, heart slamming - a kid caught stealing cookies. There he stands beside my vehicle, that diner guy, legs planted, hands locked tight across his chest, face carved from stone.
Wind slips through the opening as I lower the glass.
A quiet offer, yet sharp underneath. This man knows how pressure feels.
"I'm... I'm looking for someone."
His gaze darts toward the diner, then snaps back. Who?
Truth slips out, though I meant to fake it. A story ready, a reason to leave forming in my mind. Yet his gaze holds me. He stands too still, angled like a barrier near the door. That quiet posture pulls honesty forward instead.
"Mira. Mira Castillo."
A flicker changes his face. Not quite sure, then wary. Who exactly might you be?
"Damen. Damen Blackwood. I go to school with her."
He spits out the word as if it left a sour taste. Westbrook? That place
"Yes."
For a full minute, he just watches. Behind his eyes, choices shift - maybe send me away, maybe listen instead.
Finally, he nods toward the diner. "Park the car. Come inside. But if you cause her any trouble - any at all - you'll answer to me. Understand?"
"Understood."
***
MIRA
Mid-pour, the shop door chimes. My eyes lift without thinking - same habit every hour on the clock - as Mr. Henderson waits silently behind his cup. Someone new steps inside.
Sound sticks there, halfway out. Words stop before they leave.
Damen Blackwood is standing in the doorway of Lou's Diner.
Jeans on him today - real ones, nothing fancy like what shows up at school - paired with a plain sweater, making him seem totally lost, so much that I almost believe my eyes are playing tricks. Nope. There he is. Solid. Present. Moving toward the counter like it's his right.
Beyond his shoulder, Marcus shoots me a glance - later, we'll have words - then slips away into the kitchen. A moment passes before I register it fully. His movement is quiet, almost too smooth. The air shifts slightly when he leaves. That kind of silence follows people like him. Not loud, never clumsy. Just gone, like smoke through glass.
"What," I manage, "are you doing here?"
Coffee." The words come out quiet as he takes a seat on the stool. No sugar. No cream. Just black, if you can manage it. He rests his hands flat on the counter, waiting
I stare at him. "You came to The Shallows. For coffee."
"Is that a problem?"
"There's a Starbucks three blocks from your house."
My stomach turns when he looks at me. Not Starbucks - that isn't what I need. Right here, right now, is where I mean to stay
Out comes the mug. Coffee fills it, steam rising like a quiet breath. He sits there, unwelcome yet staying. Words form in my head - sharp ones - but hands move differently. A cup slides across the table. Silence speaks louder than what I almost said. This moment bends, not breaks. Warm liquid meets cold hesitation. Nothing gets fixed. Everything shifts anyway.
His fingers close over it, just like they did on that very first evening. You handle things well
"At pouring coffee?"
"At making people feel comfortable. I've been watching you - " He stops, realizing how that sounds. "I mean, I saw you with that old man in the booth. You made him laugh. You don't laugh at school. You don't do anything at school except hide."
"You've been watching me at school too?"
Right away. Not a pause. Never a lie. Truth instead, rough but real. Stopping isn't possible
Between us, the silence grows heavy. What comes next feels impossible to find. Staring back is someone who sees me as the solution to something long searched for.
"Damen - "
"I know." He sets down the coffee. "I know this is weird. I know I'm supposed to stay in my lane and you're supposed to stay in yours and never the twain shall meet. But I can't stop thinking about you, Mira. And I don't want to."
Fresh sounds fill the air once more. Inside walks a bunch of teens - probably regulars, guessing by their ease, drawn by low prices and free refills. Their eyes flick toward Damen, then down at his designer knit, his unfamiliar features standing out. You can almost watch suspicion rise in their stares.
Foot traffic piles up around me. Got tasks waiting, things set in motion. This chat drags when streets hum with errands and motion.
"Stay," I say, before I can stop myself. "For a while. I have to work, but... stay."
A grin spreads across his face, slow as morning light creeping over the hills.
***
SELENA
When Saturday night comes around, every single thing is already in place.
Out of nowhere, Briar's connections down in The Shallows delivered sooner than anyone might have guessed. Not only were the files thorough, they spelled things out clearly - each one worse than the last.
Down at Lou's, Mira Castillo flips pancakes before sunrise. Her mornings start loud - grease splatter, coffee pots hissing - but quiet when she steps into the hall on Willow Street. That apartment has two rooms, maybe three if you count the closet Elena uses for storage. Elena keeps their schedule pinned above the sink, color-coded like it matters. Their mom's locked up, been that way since winter last year. No cousins call. No aunts send birthday cards. The phone rings once a month, always wrong numbers.
Last night, Damen Blackwood showed up at the diner. Perched on a stool by the counter. Sipping his drink slow. His eyes stayed fixed on her, quiet but sharp, full of something deep.
Three readings of the passage gave space for each word to settle. The second time through, meaning began to take shape. By the last round, clarity arrived without effort.
There he moved toward her. Over the bridge he stepped, leaving behind where we stood, heading straight to her.
Quiet again. Her words float across the room, coming from the doorframe. Silk brushes her shoulders, ready for the party, where she'll stand beside him while he stumbles through speeches. Something heavy sits on your silence - she sees it, asks without touching
"Nothing, Mother. Just thinking."
A pause comes before she speaks, her gaze steady even though she had more than one glass since lunchtime. Could it be that kid from the Blackwood place?
Silence sits heavy. It speaks loud enough on its own.
"He's not worth it, Selena. Boys like him, they chase novelty. New things. Shiny objects. Once the shine wears off, they come back to what's comfortable." She adjusts her earring. "Be comfortable. Be patient. He'll return."
Faster than my voice finds words, she is gone.
Sit back. Wait awhile.
Of course it's simple for her to speak. That ache of seeing the one you care for glance elsewhere - she hasn't lived that. The weight of standing there, unnoticed even when surrounded by faces saying they notice - you won't find that in her story.
My fingers find the phone first thing. A note gets sent to Briar without much thought.
Monday. We start.
***
MIRA
By nine, things slow down at last. He gives me time off then, so I sit opposite Damen - still in his seat after three hours, on round number seven of coffee, plus a heap of fries he's been picking at.
"You don't have to stay," I say.
"I know."
"Your friends are probably wondering where you are."
"Probably." He doesn't move. "Tell me something about yourself. Something real."
Maybe it's time to shift things. Turn away, move the conversation elsewhere. Hide like usual. Yet exhaustion pulls me down, his presence stays fixed, somehow that weighs more than silence ever did.
"When I was twelve, my mother disappeared for six months. Just... vanished. Left me with fifty dollars and a note saying she'd be back." I pause, watching his face. "I kept us alive. Elena was nine. I told the neighbors she was sick so they wouldn't ask why she wasn't in school. I found food. I paid the rent. I did what I had to do."
A quiet stillness stays on his face. Not one flicker of sorrow, fear, or blame shows through. Listening is what he does. That's all.
"When she came back, she was different. Sober for a while. Clean. She tried to be a mother. But I'd already learned that I couldn't count on her. That I could only count on myself." I meet his eyes. "That's who I am, Damen. Look closely. This is someone who found out early - too early - that help won't come from elsewhere. Survival means stepping up alone
A hand moves toward me over the wood surface. Not fast - each second stretches, leaving space to retreat. Since I stay put, skin meets skin, light as a thought. His touch lands like something almost forgotten.
"I'm not trying to save you," he says. "I just want to stand next to you while you save yourself."
Words fail me here. A kid speaking that way leaves me puzzled how to react.
For a second, my hands move on their own - fingers closing over his like it means something. Reality blurs, just enough to feel true.
***
DAMEN
Out the door of the diner by ten, just after Marcus growls that someone has got to shut things down tonight. She follows me slow, Mira does, her steps light on the linoleum - then everything stops, almost, like the air waits too, as if maybe she leans in.
Not a word comes out of her. Still, at the corner of her lips, something lifts - genuine, slow, like dawn breaking after endless night - and then: "Thank you. That you didn't leave."
"Thank you for letting me."
Home feels far away, even though the car moves steadily forward. Each word spoken today loops inside my head, along with looks exchanged and brief touches. The phone keeps vibrating nonstop - Kael sent something, then Selena, then others asking why I vanished without warning. Not one message gets answered.
Only after stepping inside does he appear - my dad sitting still in the room with books.
Last night still lingers. Not up for debate.
"Drove around. Cleared my head."
Far away on the other side of the room, his gaze lingers, sharp and measuring. Behind those eyes, numbers shift like sand, sorting value from risk. Not a parent then - more like an executive scanning balance sheets, hunting flaws.
"Sit down, Damen. We need to talk."
Footsteps echo far off. Cold seeps through fabric, pressing into skin.
"I've been hearing things. About you and a girl. A scholarship student." He says the words like they're contaminated. "Tell me it's not true."
Lying might keep me safe. Yet truth weighs less than secrets. Mira deserves more than tricks. So does what's forming - slow, unsure - between us. Pretending drains me now. Acting feels heavier each day. Being false? That version of me cracks under the weight.
"It's true."
Heavy quiet fills the air after. Stillness presses hard then.
"You will end it." His voice is flat, final. "Tonight. Tomorrow. I don't care when. But you will end it."
"No."
There it is - floating, silent. Saying no? To him? Eighteen years gone by, yet that answer's still untouched.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no." I stand, my heart pounding but my voice steady. "She's not a game. She's not a distraction. She's not something to be managed. She's a person, and I care about her, and I'm not going to end anything."
Up from the chair he moves, deliberate. Though small in frame, presence has never been an issue for him - today it lands squarely on my shoulders like weight. The quiet around us tightens.
"You're eighteen years old. You have no money of your own, no power of your own, no life of your own. Everything you have - everything you are - comes from me. From this family. From the name you carry." He steps closer. "If you choose her, you choose poverty. You choose obscurity. You choose to throw away everything I've built for you."
"Then I choose her."
Out the door I go, steps quick. Not waiting for his voice to catch up. My fingers tremble, hidden now. He never spots the fear there. It isn't about him. Not about cash vanishing. What comes after - that's what holds me cold.
If he shuts me out, there's no gift for Mira - just who I am.
Maybe that'll be enough. Maybe it won't.