Page 4 of Daddy Erik
Content Note:This story contains dark themes, including medical captivity, loss of bodily autonomy, and trauma-related experiences. Reader discretion is advised.
Erik
I have been sitting across from her shop for forty-seven minutes. I spent that time observing her movements within her bookstore. There is a rhythm to her, meticulous and patient. It is the rhythm I could map and memorize.
I received a message on my phone:
the security feed for block C went down “for maintenance” at 22:13.
As one of her cameras and street lamps was out, I noticed this time when I drove her home that rainy evening. On my iPad, I'm logging the message I just received on my phone, which includes its date, downtime, and recurrence.
This occurrence is the third lapse in three weeks. Patterns are reliable; people who look to hide them are not. My jaw tightens.I sense that someone or something is testing the infrastructure near Claire’s bookstore. Following the events involving Grace, I am vigilantly monitoring all activities related to her and her bookstore.
Inside the store, she moves behind a row of new book arrivals, her hair loose, her sleeves rolled up, and a smudge of dust at her temple that she does not notice. The bell over the door gives a soft, single chime.
She looks up, startled into a smile that loosens something in my chest I have spent a lifetime learning how to ignore. “Closing soon,” she calls without looking away from the counter.
“I know,” I say.
She sets the deposit bag down and glances up properly. “You always know,” she says with a smile on her face.
I shrug out of the jacket and fold it up to let it hang over my arm. “Are you surveying me?” she teases, sliding the flap of the bag shut.
“I’m protecting who is most precious to me,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I intend. The consonants cut the air; for a second her smile falters into something softer, unreadable. She shakes it off and returns to the register. The desk lamp throws copper threads through her hair. Her shadow moves long and sure across the stacks of books sitting up next to various shelves.
When the deposit is done, I nod toward the doorway. “Top bolt, little girl.”
She lifts her eyes, half-questioning, and performs the small safety mechanics I have taught her in the space between us.Click.That sound goes somewhere deeper than the lock. It settles in my chest like a prayer.
“Good girl,” I murmur without thinking. Color rises along her neck.
“Tea?” she says, her voice low and practical. “It’s freshly made.”
“Depends. Are you planning to poison me?” I ask.
She laughs, and the sound is the most beautiful sound I’ve heard. “Only with caffeine.”
I follow her through the narrow back hall. The air inside the shop smells like old paper and bergamot. The kitchen in the back of the bookstore is small and honest and has an Insta-kettle plugged in and sounds like it’s still bubbling the water inside, along with mismatched mugs. This is the sort of place someone builds cleanly and carefully. She moves like she does with everything: without pretense, without performance.
“Are you always this intense, or is it just with me?” she asks when the kettle hums.
“Just with you,” I answer, and I mean it. There is no script to soften the truth. My life is a ledger of contingencies and solutions. Most people fit into boxes I can sort and shelve. She is not a box. She is more dangerous because she makes me forget to inventory.
She hands me the cup; our fingers brush. Static. “What do you see when you look at me?” she asks, half amusement, half daring.
“The future,” I say before I can catch myself.
She breathes in sharply, and the movement is small and intimate. “That’s bold.”
“I don’t do small talk,” I say.
We hold a space for a long moment that feels simultaneously comfortable and uncomfortable. She leans into the counter, chin tucked, watching me as if cataloging what she sees. There is a vulnerability there that does not look like weakness. It looks like an offer.
The lights flicker for just a moment. Reflex slides my hand to her back as if her world could use a little more steadiness. My palm is flat against her spine. I can feel the quick shudder of her body.
“You all right?” I say.
She nods once. She does not pull away. No protest. No flinch. It is a small thing, a habit, that tells you what a person will do when everything breaks.
