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Watching for movement.

My body buzzed with that old, familiar energy—the kind that came before impact. Before detonation. Before death.

Cyclone said I was safe.

He said River had posted eyes on the house, and I believed him.

But my gut didn’t.

It hadn’t stopped twisting since the knock on the door.

He was here before I saw him.

He'd been watching me longer than I realized. Waiting.

That fact alone made my skin crawl.

I reached for the coffee pot with hands that barely trembled and poured a cup I didn’t want. The bitter smell grounded me. I didn’t drink it—I just held it, letting the heat warm against my palms.

Behind me, the floor creaked.

I didn’t jump.

I turned slowly.

River stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a rare softness in his usually hard face.

“You look like you’re waiting for the world to end,” he said quietly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I replied. “My world ended once. I didn’t think it might end again.”

He didn’t smile. Just stepped into the room and leaned against the counter. “Team’s moving fast. If this guy’s got a pattern, they’ll find it.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then Cyclone will,” River said. “You know that.”

I nodded. Of course, I knew that.

That was the problem.

If anything happened to him—because of me—I’d never forgive myself. He is the reason I’m back from that hellhole I’ve been in for the last six years.

“You don’t have to prove you’re strong right now,” River said, voice lower now. “You’ve already proven it. You survived whatever this was the first time. You walked away. You built a life.”

“A life someone just walked into like it belonged to them,” I murmured.

River was quiet for a beat. Then: “Do you still have it?”

I froze. “Have what?”

He gave me a look. “Don’t play dumb. Your go-bag. The one you swore you threw away.”

A silence stretched between us.

Then I turned and walked to the pantry, reached behind a bin, and pulled out a black canvas bag.

River just nodded. “Didn’t think you could help yourself.”