Page 42 of Creeping Lily
TITAN
I stand across the road, hidden in plain sight, watching as Justin cups Lily’s face in both hands, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. He leans in, pressing his lips to her forehead like he owns the right, like it’s his place to leave a mark there.
It’s not a quick goodbye. He lingers, eyes locked on hers, like he’s trying to memorize the way she looks before she disappears from his sight.
He takes a step back as if he’s about to leave, but then he comes right back in, brushing her cheek with his thumb, leaning close again. Every time he moves away, he’s pulled right back in. It’s pathetic.
I curl my fingers into a fist, my knuckles itching with the urge to cross the street and put my hand through his smug, lovesick face.
I can already picture the sound—his teeth rattling loose, clattering to the pavement like dice.
It wouldn’t win me any favor with Lily, but watching him press his body into hers and watching her let him—it stirs something sharp and ugly inside me.
It’s only when the first passengers start boarding the bus she’s catching that he finally pulls away. Even then, he doesn’t leave until she’s stepped on board and the driver closes the door. Then he turns, slow, like it physically hurts him to walk away, and drives off.
For Spring break, my little ball of chaos decided to go home to bumfuck nowhere.
Why? Don’t ask me. It’s going to be a pain in the ass to keep track of her in a town so small the post office doubles as the gossip mill, where everybody knows everybody and strangers might as well have neon signs over their heads.
But it’s a rare opportunity to get close without the constant presence of the guard dogs who’ve been on her since the attack two weeks ago.
Bethany and Justin Collins. My shadows in reverse.
Her shadows. The bane of my existence. They haven’t given her more than a breath of solitude since that night.
I can’t exactly order Justin away without drawing suspicion, and as for Bethany—well, I’ve never been above killing for a good reason, but she’s the only solid anchor Lily has.
And she does her job—keeps Lily out of trouble.
She’s exactly the type Goliath needs, but that’s another conversation for another time.
Spring break couldn’t come fast enough. For me, it’s not just a reprieve—it’s an opening. Her first trip back home, her first real stretch of time where I might actually breathe the same air as her without interruption. I’ve already prepped for the long drive and the time away.
I flick my cigarette to the ground, the ember hissing out against the concrete, and watch as Lily steps off the bus at the terminal.
She moves with that unhurried caution she always has in public, eyes scanning without looking like she’s scanning.
Her hand adjusts the strap of her bag, the overnighter dragging at her side.
Then she stops. Hesitates. Her gaze sweeps the terminal—and lands in my direction .
My skin goes tight.
She can’t see me. I’m too deep in the shadows, too careful for that.
And yet, her eyes linger, a crease forming between her brows.
It’s not just looking—it’s searching. The way she stares is almost like she feels me there.
Like she can see past the dark, past the space between us, straight into my chest where she’s been rooted for months.
Then, without warning, she turns and heads for another terminal entirely. Not the one heading back to her sleepy hometown. Not the one I’ve been planning for. She boards a different bus altogether.
I feel my brow knot before I even realize it’s happening. Not much surprises me. But Lily Snow has a talent for it.
I don’t move until the bus eases away from the curb, its brakes sighing as if it knows we’re settling in for a long run. There’s no point in rushing. I head to the parking lot, slide behind the wheel, and pull out at a leisurely pace.
The destination sign on the back of the bus tells me exactly where we’re headed. It’s not nowhereville.
It’s somewhere else entirely.
And I’ll be right behind her the whole way.
It’s been hours since she boarded that bus.
Hours of staring at the back of her head from a distance, keeping my pace steady, waiting.
She’s gotten off a handful of times—just long enough to stretch her legs when the bus pulls into gas stations or highway diners.
She doesn’t talk to anyone. Doesn’t even really look at them.
She hardly eats, only picking at a bag of chips she bought at one stop.
But she moves—slow, deliberate laps around the parking lot, like her mind is somewhere far away.
Every time I glance her way, I catch the same expression.
That far-off look that tells me she’s not here with us at all—she’s somewhere inside her own head, chasing a thought she’s not ready to share.
I keep my distance. Stay invisible. My black SUV doesn’t stand out, and today, that’s a blessing.
When she finally reaches her stop, I’m not surprised.
Annoyed? Yeah. But not surprised. The intel I had was wrong—or maybe she flat-out lied about where she was going.
Wouldn’t be the first time. Hard to tell her friends she’s taking a detour to visit a ghost from her past. Most people spend spring break with family, not digging up old scars.
I watch from my car as she steps to the curb and stares across the street. She’s not just looking—she’s fixed, locked in. And then I see it. The Walker house.
Of course.
She doesn’t move for a long moment, just stands there with her arms hanging loose at her sides, shoulders hunched against the summer heat. Her face is unreadable from here, but I know her. She’s studying it like it’s going to answer questions no one else can.
I should have known she’d come here. Warning her off the Walkers was like striking a match and tossing it into gasoline. Her curiosity is the fire, Bentley Walker the fuel. I knew this was going to happen.
When she finally does move, her steps are slow, like she’s wading through wet cement. She crosses the street, climbs the front walk, and pauses at the door. She hesitates only for a heartbeat before lifting her hand and ringing the doorbell.
The door opens to a middle-aged blonde with a toddler on her hip.
The woman smiles, warm and open, like she knows Lily—or at least recognizes her.
I can’t see Lily’s face, but her body tilts forward, and she hooks a finger gently under the child’s chin.
The little boy reaches for her, squirming in his mother’s arms, and I watch as the woman’s brows lift in surprise.
She says something, steps back, and Lily lifts the boy against her chest like she’s done it a hundred times before.
Seconds later, the woman opens the door wider, and Lily steps inside, still holding the toddler. The door shuts.
I exhale hard, my jaw ticking. Not much gets under my skin, but this? This does. She just walked into the home of a stranger without a second thought. Too trusting. Too reckless. It’s like she doesn’t realize how fragile she is in a world that eats people alive. And maybe she doesn’t care—but I do.
I know she’s safe. The Walkers are long gone, and the people living here now are as squeaky clean as they come. That doesn’t matter. What matters is she didn’t think twice about her own safety, which means she didn’t think about what it would do to me if something happened to her. She doesn’t care.
Half an hour. I’ll give her thirty minutes before I storm up there and drag her out by her hair if I have to.
I get out of the car, light a cigarette, and take a long drag. No way am I stinking up my SUV with smoke, but the nicotine keeps my hands from curling into fists.
I don’t even make it to the halfway mark. Fifteen minutes later, the door opens, and she steps out. She’s smiling—actually smiling—at the woman in the doorway, waving as she heads down the steps. There’s a lightness to her walk now, like whatever she came here for gave her exactly what she needed.
I slide back into my car, engine purring, and creep after her down the street, far enough back to stay invisible. She doesn’t notice me as she turns the corner. I already know where she’s headed.
I wait a few minutes, letting her get some distance. Then I gun the engine, pull out of my spot, and drive toward her next stop.
I’ll get there first, and I’ll be waiting.