Ray Lin –
I couldn't sleep.
Too soft. The bed. The pillows. The silence.
Everything felt wrong.
I wasn't used to comfort. My body didn't understand safety. My brain kept whispering: This is a trap. He's just pretending. You're not safe. Not yet.
I turned onto my side. Again. Again. The moonlight spilled in slanted bars across the floor. I counted the shadows on the ceiling.
One.
Two.
Three.
Just like I used to.
But this time, I didn't want to wait for morning. I didn't want to sit in the dark and try not to cry into unfamiliar sheets. So I pushed off the covers, tiptoed out of the room, and followed the quietest pull inside my chest.
Down the hallway.
Bare feet. Cold marble. Fingers curled around the hem of Sebastian Blake's oversized hoodie—still mine, still safe.
I didn't know where I was going.
But I found him anyway.
The study door was open just enough to hear his voice.
"…I don't care how many people you have to shake down. I want names. All of them. And I want that house turned to ash."
His voice wasn't raised, but it hit hard. That cold, dangerous edge that made men cower and beg.
But I didn't leave.
I stood just outside the door.
And listened.
"I don't want her to ever feel like she's still in that place," he said quietly. "Not here. Not ever."
My heart stuttered.
He was talking about me.
I blinked back something that stung.
Then I must've shifted, because the floor creaked. Just a little.
The chair turned. The light from his desk spilled across the hallway and caught me in full.
He saw me.
And for the first time, I didn't feel like running.
He stood slowly. Ended the call with a clipped "Handle it," and put his phone down.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, voice lower now. Gentler.
I shook my head. My arms curled tighter around the hoodie. "Too quiet."
He nodded. Like he understood. Like he had his own ghosts that lived in silence too.
"Come in."
I hesitated only a second before stepping into the room. Everything smelled like coffee and leather and him.
I sat on the edge of the sofa, not trusting my voice. Not trusting the way I felt too small and too seen at once.
He watched me for a moment, then crossed the room and handed me a glass of warm milk from the mini-fridge hidden behind the bar. I took it with shaking fingers.
"You don't have to be afraid here, Ray," he said.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I whispered, "Why do you care?"
He didn't blink. "Because someone should've a long time ago."
And just like that, I felt something crack inside me.
Not the kind of crack that breaks.
The kind that lets the light in.