The first slow hour of night shift wraps Chariot City’s depot in restless neon. Varik stands at his route desk, dark eyes narrowed, jaw working as he watches Solenne through a wide pane of smudged glass. She sits behind the ticket counter, her hair a glossy sweep of black over one shoulder, lips caught between teeth as she writes in looping script on the back of a map. The hard flick of her wrist, the crease in her brow, the way she draws her knees up in the wheeled chair—it all stirs the ache in his chest he keeps locked beneath layers of flannel and spite.

He lets the phone ring twice before answering it, distracted. His fingers—scarred knuckles, bitten nails—drum the desk as he steals one more glance at Solenne. She laughs at something her supervisor says, but the sound never reaches her eyes. She used to look at me, Varik thinks, biting back the memory, the taste of her name lingering on his tongue.

Minutes bleed into an hour. The depot’s endless rhythm—stamping, echoing, doors slamming—becomes a storm in Varik’s head as he finally moves, rough boots skidding on linoleum. His hands are tense fists in his pockets. He heads for the staff lockers. The harsh fluorescent glare bounces off metal doors, off Solenne, who’s just entering from the other side, hugging her coat to her chest.

She freezes when she sees him. Her jeans are ripped at the knees, her T-shirt faded from too many washes. There’s a bruise in the hollow of her throat—faint, recent. Her gaze flickers from his face to the floor, throat bobbing.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she says, voice low, almost cautious. She fiddles with her necklace—a rough-cut piece of jade Varik gave her last winter, the cord fraying. She won’t meet his eyes.

His body goes rigid, breath shallow. “It’s my shift, Sol.” He tries to keep it casual, but the tension simmers between them, razor-sharp. For a beat, neither moves. He catches the tremor in her hand as she shoves the locker closed, fingers trembling just enough to betray her.

Silence thickens. He steps closer, posture loose but eyes intent, blue and unsteady. She smells like rain and cigarette smoke, familiar and too close. In this small, humming room, time compresses. Her lashes flutter. When his hand brushes hers as he offers a stray ticket stub, their fingertips collide—a hot spark, a shiver. She snatches her hand away, but her breathing shifts, pulse jumping at her throat.

A memory cracks open between them: tangled sheets, moonlight on bare skin, laughter dissolving into gasps. She glances up, face flushed, pain flickering in her eyes.

Varik shifts, voice bruised. “You left your badge at my place,” he says, low, meaning threading beneath his words. She winces at the reminder. Her mouth opens, shuts. Her hands knot in her coat, voice a silken whisper: “It’s not that simple.”

He laughs, short and sharp, masking the edge of desperation. “It never is with you.”

Suddenly, the door bangs open. Breslan saunters in, all swagger and sly grins. He’s cleaner-cut, hair back in a lazy knot, depot-issued jacket slung over broad shoulders. He sizes up Varik’s glare and Solenne’s flushed cheeks in one glance.

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” Breslan drawls, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You two need a minute? I’ll just—” He winks, mouth quirking as he jostles past Varik, shoulder heavy and warm, leaving the faint scent of aftershave. “Careful you don’t break any more hearts, Miras.”

Solenne ducks her head, mortified. Varik’s jaw flexes, anger shading his cheeks but giving way to a haunted kind of longing as he watches Breslan flirtatiously tease her, the easy laugh Solenne gives out of habit.

Breslan claps Varik’s back—too hard, pointed—and says, “Don’t pine so obvious, man. She doesn’t bite.”

Varik’s stare hollows out. “You don’t know her like I do,” he mutters. Breslan just laughs, heading for his own locker, whistling tunelessly.

Solenne turns on her heel. “I have to work.” Her voice is brittle, carrying the weight of everything unsaid. She slips from the room, shoulders rigid, leaving Varik aching and raw, drowning in memory.

He’s about to curse Breslan under his breath when he notices something tucked between the slats of his locker. It’s a folded slip of paper—old, soft from fingers tracing it again and again. Varik’s hands shake as he opens it, scanning the lines of uneven poetry. At first, he thinks it’s Solenne’s—but the handwriting is his. The poem is one he left a year ago, love and regret tangled in every word.

But the bottom line is different—a message he never wrote: I see you. I know everything.

Heart thundering, Varik looks up, pulse racing with dread and need. Someone knows his secrets. The past isn’t just alive—it’s hunting him.

To be continued...