Page 2 of The Vagabond

SAXON

I n some circles, they call me the Vagabond.

A man untethered. A drifter. A ghost with a pulse.

I walk roads without names, sleep in beds that never remember me, and wear the kind of smile that’s learned how to lie.

They call me a wanderer. A rogue. A man with no home. But the truth? I choose the hunger. I choose the ache. Because standing still feels like death, and belonging? Belonging feels like a noose tightening around my neck.

There’s a scar carved along my jaw, half-hidden beneath rough stubble, and eyes that carry too many ghosts, too many memories no man should be forced to hold. Eyes that have seen more than what should ever be humanly bearable.

I’m the kind of man who knows how to disappear. Into the night. Into her memory and myself.

They say a vagabond carries no chains. But that’s a lie. My chains are invisible, knotted around my ribs where no one can see. Regret. Loss. Mistakes I can never undo.

I drift from city to city — not because I’m running from something, but because I’m searching. For a moment, a breath, a touch that makes the world stop hurting. I keep moving, even when my heart is in ruins, even when the world has long forgotten my name.

I am the man who belongs nowhere — and everywhere. A wound that never quite stops bleeding. And maybe, just maybe, I prefer it that way. But the thing about drifting? Eventually, the road spits you somewhere you didn’t mean to land. And for me, that place was her doorstep.

Maxine Andrade.

The girl I swore I’d never see again, because seeing her meant remembering everything I buried in the dark corners of myself.

I tell myself it’s not fate. Not destiny or some cosmic pull dragging me back to the girl I abandoned.

It’s unfinished business. That’s the lie I cling to when I step off the curb, cross the street, and stare up at the window glowing faintly in the night.

That’s the lie I tell myself as my chest tightens, tightens, tightens like a fist I can’t unclench.

But the truth? The truth is, I’m still searching — not for a moment, not for a breath, not for a touch. For her .

She leaves the bathroom light on when she showers.

That’s the first thing I notice. The second?

She hums when she’s scared. Not a song — just this low, uneven melody like her soul is trying to keep time with her breath.

I hear it when she gets home late, locking the door, turning the chamber three times.

I hear it when she curls up on the sofa, trying to convince herself she’s safe. But Maxine Andrade doesn’t feel safe.

I sit parked across the street, window cracked just enough to let in the jasmine blooming beside her building.

My gun rests on the seat beside me. My badge is buried in the glovebox.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t do this.

But I can’t help myself. I haven’t slept.

Don’t even try anymore. She’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this world, like if I stop watching, stop waiting, I’ll miss the moment everything goes wrong again — like it did before.

I didn’t want to leave her. I had to. That’s the lie I keep telling myself.

Because if I’d stayed, we both would’ve been dead.

Kadri didn’t test loyalty. He measured it in blood.

And I bled for her. In that goddamn prison.

I let the monster watch while I touched her like she was just another notch, just another body.

I did it to protect her. But it didn’t protect her at all.

Because I disappeared. And she stayed. Now she lives in this shoebox apartment with creaky floors and thin walls, trying to convince the world she’s okay.

But I know better. I know the way trauma leaves footprints.

I see them in her body language, in the way she checks the shadows twice before bed.

She thinks she’s alone. But she’s never alone.

I climb out of the car just as her bedroom light clicks off, slicing a square of darkness into the night.

The world around me exhales — quiet, heavy, too still.

The kind of stillness that invites monsters to slip through the cracks.

I cross the street. Every step is a violation.

Every breath feels like a betrayal of the oath I swore.

Protect the innocent. Serve justice. But justice?

Justice forgot her. This isn’t about the job anymore.

It’s not about the Bureau, the cases, the rules.

I’m not here to investigate. I’m here for her.

Only her. And maybe that makes me a traitor.

Maybe it makes me a criminal in a different uniform.

But I stopped caring the night they ordered me to leave and called it collateral damage. She’s not collateral. She’s mine .

The lock’s the same — I installed it myself two nights ago, when the landlord dragged his ass fixing the busted deadbolt. Sloppy. Dangerous. Unforgivable. So I fixed it. Quietly. Without asking. Just like I’m doing now .

My gloved hand slides over the new lock, metal still stiff from disuse.

I wonder if she noticed. If she heard the faint scrape of tools in the dark and chose to ignore it.

Or maybe… Maybe she’s letting me in. Maybe, somewhere deep beneath the fear, beneath the anger, beneath the survival instincts still snapping inside her, she knows it’s meAnd she’s opening the door anyway.

I slip inside like a ghost. Her scent hits me first — floral and fire, like rebellion wrapped in silk.

My hands tremble as I close the door behind me, leaning into the sound of her breathing from the next room.

I’ve only let myself watch her sleep once before. I promised it would be the last time. That promise lasted six days. Six. I cross the living room, slow, silent, memorizing every detail.

She moved the lamp. Bought a new blanket. Her textbooks are stacked by the sofa — criminology, psych, brutal nonfiction about trauma and healing. She’s trying to understand what was done to her. She doesn’t know I already understand her demons better than any textbook will ever explain.

I step into the doorway of her bedroom. And there she is.

Blanket tangled around her thighs. Sweatshirt riding up, showing a sliver of skin.

Face soft in sleep. Almost peaceful. I want to kneel beside her, press my forehead to hers, beg her to scream at me, curse my name, tear me apart until her rage burns clean.

I want her to know I never stopped looking for a way back.

But instead, I stand there. Breathing her name like a prayer I know I’ll never be forgiven for. I watch her sleep in a world that doesn’t deserve her. In a bed too small for someone who carries so much grief.

She deserves sunlight. Safety. A goddamn mansion. But instead? She has me. The monster in the dark. The man who touches her walls when she’s gone, breathes her shampoo like a junkie, counts every lock she forgot before bed .

I don’t make a sound. Just stand there. Hands clenched at my sides, aching for her.

I miss her eyes — that electric blue that pinned me in place,that fire when she realized I was the man whispering salvation into her ear with one hand on her hip and the other on his goddamn gun.

She doesn’t know I never stopped watching.

That I memorized her laugh when she thought no one was listening.

That I almost shot a man last week for bumping into her too hard.

I’ve been building her safety net in silence, cataloging every possible threat, because one day, I’ll have to explain.

Not to earn forgiveness. But because she deserves the truth.

And until then? I’ll stay in the shadows. Breathing her name like a prayer. Because I didn’t just want her back then. I worshipped her. Even as I ruined her.