Page 14 of Sweet Doe
That was when I knew I wasn’t going to just haunt the edges of her life.
I was going to carve a place right in the center of it.
Because if no one else could see how extraordinary she was, then fuck them.
She belonged with someone who could.
And I was done being erased.
This time, I’d be the one who couldn’t be forgotten.
I push off the chair slowly, feet soundless against the wood floor. She stirs under the blanket, a small noise in her throat, but doesn’t wake. I smile to myself.
She trusts me enough to sleep.
Good.
She’ll need her strength.
I move into the small kitchen and reach for the pan. She’ll be starving. That trek through the woods nearly killed her. I wrap my fingers around the coffee tin. Kenyan blend. Dark roast. No cream. I drove four hours last month just to find it. She mentioned it once in a comment—buried in a thread where a client complimented her taste. Small things. But I remembered.
I always remember.
The bacon goes in first. Slow and steady. Let the smell seep into the walls. Let her wake to comfort. To care. To the kind of peace she hasn’t known in years.
Because here, she’ll never have to hide again.
Not from fists. Not from expectations.
Not from me.
I plate the eggs next. I don’t talk. Just think. About the café. About the slap that ended his life. The moment Alex’s hand cracked across her cheek and she didn’t even flinch—just blinked, stunned, like she couldn’t believe someone she loved had finally crossed the line.
He left her sitting there. And I followed.
That’s when the plan became action.
That’s when I stopped waiting.
The rest? Blood, snow and silence. A body that no one will find, and a future that begins right here, right now.
I pour her coffee. Place the mug beside the plate. The bacon’s perfect, all curled at the edges, and crisp the way she always orders it for breakfast at that little café.
This isn’t just breakfast.
It’s a promise.
She’ll wake soon, and smell the food. She’ll feel the warmth, and she’ll know she’s safe. That for once, someone finally thought about her enough to remember the little things.
I head into the bedroom to glance at her one last time. She’s still curled beneath the blanket in our bed, my hoodie swallowing her frame. Only the edge of her face peeks out—cheek pressed to the mattress, lips soft and slightly parted. She looks angelic like this.Mine.
I kneel beside her, just for a second. Brush a strand of that copper hair from her cheek with the back of my fingers. She stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. Her skin’s warm now. Her pulse steady. And her lashes—long and dark—flutter slightly like she’s dreaming.
I want her to dream of me.
The fire crackles low in the main room just outside the bedroom door, its warmth starting to fade. Looking toward the hearth, I can see the flames are dying.
I stand and shrug into my coat.
