Page 8 of Rampage

I've been so busy just surviving that I haven't had time to think about normal teenage experiences. Maybe that's what makes Reid so intimidating, he represents something I've never allowed myself to want.

After finishing my sandwich, I head to the small bookstore three blocks from the diner. The bell jingles softly as I enter, and the familiar scent of paper and stale air welcomes me. This has become my sanctuary over the past year, a place where I can lose myself in other worlds when mine feels too constricting.

I browse the shelves, running my finger along the spines of used books. The owner, Mr. England, nods at me from behind the counter. He's used to my Sunday visits by now.

"New mystery section just came in," he calls over. "Some good ones in there."

I'm heading toward the section he indicated when the bell above the door jingles again. I glance up automatically, then freeze.

Reid.

He looks different without his leather vest, dressed instead in a simple black t-shirt that stretches across his chest and a leather jacket. He spots me immediately, as if he knew I'd be here.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he says with a slight smile, approaching slowly like he's afraid I might bolt.

"Are you following me?" I ask, my defenses rising instinctively.

He shakes his head. "Contrary to what you might think, I do read." He holds up a book, a worn copy of Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea. "Returning this, actually."

"Oh." I feel foolish for jumping to conclusions. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize for being cautious." His eyes are serious now. "It's kept you alive."

The echo of Deb's words from yesterday sends a chill through me. "What do you know about that?"

"Only what I've observed," he says quietly. "The way you always sit with your back to the wall. How you check exits when you enter a room. The way you flinch when someone raises their voice." He pauses. "I recognize the signs, Lily."

I clutch my book tighter, feeling exposed. “I didn’t know I was that obvious.”

I swallow hard, not liking feeling so exposed.

"You're not obvious," he says. "To any other person, these things would go unnoticed."

His eyes track the subtle movement of my fingers as they worry the corner of the book cover, a nervous habit I've developed over the years. He notices how I shift my weight slightly when he moves closer, maintaining some distance between us. Even now, his gaze catches the way my eyes flick toward the exit, a quick calculation I make without conscious thought.

"But you notice," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I notice everything about you, Lily," Reid admits, no pretense in his voice. "The way you hum under your breath when you're refilling coffee cups. How you always save the slightly imperfect pastries at the bakery for the kids who come in after school. The small notebook you write in during your breaks."

Heat creeps up my neck. These are intimate observations, little pieces of myself I thought were private.

"That day you first came to town," he continues, "I was at the diner. You looked… scared. Like you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. But there was something else there too."

"What?" I ask, genuinely curious about how this stranger had seen me when I felt invisible.

"Determination," he says. "I respected that. Still do."

A customer brushes past us, breaking the intensity of the moment. I step back, creating more space between us.

"I'm not some project for you to fix," I tell him, my voice stronger now. "If that's what this is about?—"

"It's not," he interrupts, his expression earnest. "I'm interested in you, Lily. The real you. Not as someone to fix or save."

The sincerity in his voice puzzles me. I've grown accustomed to people wanting something from me—my body, my compliance, my silence. Reid's straightforward interest feels foreign, dangerous in its simplicity.

"You don't know the real me," I counter.

"I'd like to," he says. "If you'd let me."

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