The restaurant was warm and dimly lit, the low hum of conversation wrapping around us like a blanket. Outside, the winter night pressed against the windows, but here, surrounded by the clink of cutlery and the scent of fresh bread, it almost felt normal. Almost.
Brandon leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying the street map between us. "Tomorrow," he said, tapping the paper, "we start early. I want to go to the police station in case they can give us any updates. After that, maybe we look at longer-term places to stay — somewhere Mark wouldn't think to check."
I nodded, tracing the condensation on my glass. "And when do you need to be back at work?"
He looked up at me, brows drawing together like I'd just asked the wrong question. "Amelia… I'm not leaving you on your own. Not now."
I blinked, the words settling into me with a weight I wasn't used to carrying — the weight of someone else's care. "But… you can't just — "
"I can," he said simply. "Work will wait. This won't."
Something in my chest loosened and ached all at once. Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before. Nobody had rearranged their life to keep me safe, to make sure I wasn't left standing alone in the storm. I'd learned to survive by relying on no one, by keeping my own company, by expecting nothing but the bare minimum from anyone.
But here he was, this quiet, steady man, turning my world on its side with nothing more than a look that said he meant every word.
Brandon smoothed the map flat on the table, his fingertip tracing a line along the streets of the city. "Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow morning, we head to the police first thing. After that, we'll get some things — clothes, food, a burner phone so he can't track you. Then we find somewhere to stay that's not linked to your name."
I watched him, the calm certainty in his voice threading through my nerves like a balm. "You've… thought this through."
"Of course I have," he said, glancing up at me with a faint smile. "It's not enough just to get away. We have to make sure he can't find you again."
A shadow of memory rippled through me—Mark's voice, cold and sharp, telling me I'd never escape him. My pulse quickened, but Brandon's steady tone anchored me.
"And what if…" I hesitated, lowering my voice. "What if the police can't help?"
His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't look away. "Then we make our own plan. We keep moving if we have to. But you're not going back to him, Amelia."
There was no hesitation in his voice, no flicker of doubt. I'd spent years hearing empty promises from someone who only wanted to control me. This was different. Brandon wasn't trying to own me — he was trying to free me.
And for the first time in years, I realised I wasn't carrying the weight of my fear alone.
We finished our meal, both of us picking at what was left more out of habit than hunger. My eyelids felt heavy, my body still vibrating with the tension of the last two days, but I knew there was one thing I needed to do before I could rest.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled to Kelly's number. Brandon watched me, his brow furrowed in quiet understanding. When she answered, relief washed over me at the sound of her voice.
"Amelia? Oh, thank God —"
"We're safe," I said quickly, my voice low and steady. "I can't tell you where we are right now, but we're fine. That's all I need you to know."
There was a pause on the line, and I could almost hear her wanting to press for more. "You're sure?"
"Yes." I swallowed, forcing a smile she couldn't see. "Please don't worry. I'll call again when I can."
Another pause. "Alright. Just… be careful."
I hung up and set the phone down, exhaling. Brandon reached across the table and squeezed my hand once, a silent reassurance.
By the time we made it back to the hotel, the exhaustion had hit like a wave. We didn't even talk much — just moved in a quiet, unspoken rhythm. Brandon took a shower while I sat on the bed, staring blankly at the muted city lights through the window. When it was my turn, the hot water was almost painful against my skin, but it washed away the chill that had settled into my bones.
Fifteen minutes later, we were both in bed, the hum of the street outside lulling us into silence. The mattress was soft, the room warm, but it wasn't comfort that sent me to sleep — it was the first flicker of safety I'd felt in a very long time.
When I finally awoke, the light was streaming through the curtains, thin and grey, the kind of London winter morning that made you want to burrow back under the covers. For a moment, I didn't move, letting myself just… exist in the quiet. No wind howling, no crunch of snow, no unexpected knock at the door. Just the low hum of the rumble of traffic somewhere below.
Brandon was still asleep beside me, one arm draped loosely across his stomach, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. In the daylight, with the worry lines smoothed from his face, he looked younger, softer.
But the uneasiness was still there, coiled tight in my stomach. Safety felt fragile — like a soap bubble that could pop the second I stepped outside. Even here, surrounded by strangers, Mark could be close. Watching.
I slipped from the bed and padded to the window, parting the curtain just enough to peer down at the street. People bustled past, bundled in coats and scarves. Nothing looked out of place, but my pulse still kicked up a notch. I didn't see him — but that didn't mean he wasn't there.
Behind me, Brandon stirred. "What time is it?" he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
"11," I said quietly. "We needed it."
His eyes met mine, still heavy-lidded but alert enough to catch the tension in my face.