By the fourth vineyard, I'd abandoned any hope of pretending I belonged among mortals swirling glasses like liquid fortune-tellers. We were on a shaded patio now, lavender brushing the edges, our plates full of cheeses and fruits I couldn't pronounce without turning it into innuendo. Annie looked far too serene beside me, which clearly meant I was doing something wrong. An older couple shuffled over. Grapevine suspenders. Wrinkled smiles. A lifetime of comfort between them. "Excuse me," the woman said, glowing like the ghost of domesticity past. "We've been watching you two for a while. You're so sweet together. Are you on your honeymoon?"
I blinked. Annie nearly inhaled her wine the wrong way. "Oh, uh, no," I started, then paused, glanced at her. Her face was unreadable behind those oversized sunglasses, but her hand squeezed mine. "…Not yet," I heard myself say.
The woman giggled like she'd been waiting for that answer all her life. Her husband already had his phone out like a mortal magician producing doves. Annie sighed, signed Fine.
So we posed. Her against me, me with my arm slung over her shoulder. At the last second I kissed her temple. Arbor, my meddling little house, caught it with a shimmer of magic. Turned it into more than a photo. A memory. A stolen pocket of peace. Dinner later: the edge of the world. Decking over the sea, string lights above, lemon and butter in the air. Annie was tipsy, the good kind. Silent giggles, flushed cheeks, her ridiculous sunhat finally collapsed in her lap.
I, naturally, was in peak form.
"I ordered the calamari because it squid pro quo," I announced, proud of myself. She covered her mouth, giggling soundlessly. "Don't clam up now," I pressed. She mouthed Stop, which only encouraged me. "I'm kraken myself up." She buried her face in the menu, shaking with laughter. "One more," I promised. "I asked the lobster if it believed in love at first sight. You know what it said? Shell yeah."
She nearly knocked over her wine, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. Gods, it was perfect. The warmth, the ease, the way the night smelled like normal.
Then, a voice. Smooth. Measured. Arrogant. "I'll have the oysters. And tell the chef I don't want that white wine reduction again, too acidic." Annie went still. Completely still.
"Annie?" My smile slipped. She didn't answer. Didn't blink. Just stared ahead, her breath stuttering. I followed her gaze, saw him. Some boring mortal in a gray suit with perfect teeth and a handshake polished to death. He looked like a politician. I didn't know him. I didn't need to. Because I knew that look on her face. The dilation of her pupils. The trembling glass in her hand. My fingers twitched. Smoke curled in my chest, the sharp need to unmake every molecule he was made of.
"Annie," I said again, softer. Her chest rose too fast. Her shoulders locked. The air caught in her throat like she was choking on nothing. I was out of my chair before I knew it, crouching in front of her, blocking her view. "Hey. Hey, sweetheart. Look at me."
Her eyes snapped to mine, glassy, frantic. On the verge of a total breakdown. I could hear her heartbeat. Fast and irregular. "It's okay," I whispered. "He doesn't see you. He won't see you. I've got you."
One tear slid down her cheek. Just one. Enough to break me. I wrapped her hand in both of mine. "Come on, Star Shine. Let's go home."
She nodded, barely. I snapped my fingers. The sea. The wine. The laughter, all gone. Left behind on that pier. Back in Arbor, the quiet was heavy. Too heavy. I undressed her slowly, eased her into one of my oversized shirts, sleeves drowning her hands. Kissed her forehead. Tucked her in like a vow. She said nothing. Couldn't. The haunted look clung to her anyway. I lay beside her, one hand on her hip, the other tracing her back. For a while she breathed slow and steady. I laid there praying for her to sleep.
It started with, a twitch of fingers. A crease between her brows. A whimper, small and broken. I didn't sleep anymore. Not really. Her body jerked, recoiled like she was bracing for blows. "Annie," I whispered, cupping her cheek. "Wake up, my love. You're safe."
But she didn't hear me. She writhed, lips parted in a breathless cry, arms curling around herself like she could hold the pain in. No. Not again. Please Gods. No. I pulled her into my chest, cradled her against me, whispering every useless word I had. "It's not real."
"They can't touch you here."
"I've got you. You're not alone." Over and over. The same heartbeat, steady, for her to hold on to. But the truth was, this terror had never left her. She'd survived by never stopping. By moving from one altar to the next. By never letting herself break. Here she was, in my arms, shaking like the breaking had finally caught up. I closed my eyes, pressed my forehead to hers. The burn of helplessness clawed my throat.
"Please," I whispered into the dark. "Please, just give her one night. One good night."
No one answered. So I held her tighter. Loved her harder. Stayed awake, watching her breathe, whispering promises into the dark that I would fight every nightmare myself if that's what it took. When, hours later, her body finally went limp in real sleep, I kissed her temple and swore it into her skin:
"I don't care if I never sleep again. Just let her rest."