The morning air carried a faint chill, the kind that hinted at rain but never quite delivered it. Caroline woke with a restless mind. Kent had been distant since the night before — his face unreadable when he’d told David, “Don’t let Laurica in.” The name had stuck in her mind, foreign yet heavy, like a stone she couldn’t ignore.

By midday, she found him in the garden. Kent was kneeling near the rose bushes, trimming away dry stems, his shirt sleeves rolled up, sunlight glinting off his dark hair. He looked calm — too calm.

“Who’s Laurica?” Caroline asked quietly.

The clippers stilled in his hand. For a long moment, Kent said nothing. Then he placed them down carefully and straightened up, brushing dirt from his palms. His eyes met hers — clear, steady, but carrying something old behind them.

“She’s someone I used to know,” he said finally. “From before all of this. From my pack.”

Caroline folded her arms, her tone soft but probing. “Used to know... as in?”

Kent exhaled, a weary sigh escaping him. “Years ago, before I ever came here, Laurica and I were close. I thought it was love at first. But it wasn’t. She was… intense. Obsessive. The kind of person who doesn’t hear ‘no’ even when you say it clearly.”

He looked away then, as if remembering something unpleasant. “When I left the pack, I left everything — and everyone — behind. But Laurica never let go. She’s infatuated, Caroline. And dangerous. If she’s here again, it’s not for peace.”

Caroline studied him — the firmness in his voice, the faint sadness in his expression. She wanted to trust him, but the name still echoed inside her like a whisper that refused to fade.

“So you’re saying there’s nothing between you and her anymore?”

Kent turned back to her, closing the space between them. “Nothing,” he said simply. “Whatever she thinks we had died years ago. I swear to you, Caroline — I’ll never let her come between us. Not now. Not ever.”

Something in his tone disarmed her — the quiet certainty, the honesty. He wasn’t pleading; he was promising. And somehow, that meant more.

Caroline lowered her gaze, then nodded slowly. “Alright… I believe you.”

Kent reached for her hand and pressed it against his chest. “You don’t have to fear ghosts from my past. They don’t define what I feel for you.”

She smiled faintly, though her eyes shimmered with uncertainty. “Just don’t keep things from me, Kent. Not again.”

“I won’t,” he murmured. “Not ever.”The week passed with uneasy peace. Caroline tried to let go of the doubts, focusing on their quiet moments — breakfast by the veranda, long walks by the woods, Kent’s rare laughter when she teased him about his cooking. For a while, it almost felt like the world had forgiven them.

Until that night.

Caroline woke to the faint smell of smoke — sharp, bitter, real. She sat up abruptly, heart pounding. “Kent…”

He was already on his feet, eyes wide, scanning the shadows. A flicker of orange light glowed from beneath the door. Then came the sound — a crack, a rush of air, and the unmistakable roar of fire.

They ran. Flames had already swallowed the hallway, licking the walls and ceiling, spreading faster than thought. Kent pulled Caroline close, covering her with his coat as they pushed through the smoke. The heat was unbearable, but his grip on her never wavered.

Outside, the night sky blazed in angry red. Their home — the life they’d built in quiet defiance — was burning before their eyes.

Caroline trembled, tears streaking down her face. “Kent… who would do this?”

He stared into the fire, his jaw tight, his eyes dark and hollow. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But someone wanted to send a message.”

And as the flames devoured everything they loved, one name returned to both their minds — unspoken but heavy between them.

Laurica.

Yet in that moment, with nothing left but the sound of fire and the beating of their hearts, Kent wrapped his arms around Caroline.

“We’ll rebuild,” he whispered. “Whatever this is — whoever did this — they won’t win.”

And beneath the crackling firelight, their promise burned stronger than the flames.

The smell of burning never leaves you.

It clings to your clothes, seeps into your hair, and crawls beneath your skin.

I didn’t even notice it at first. I was just stepping out of the cab, tired, half-listening to the hum of traffic on Meadow Street. Then I saw it — a rising plume of black smoke curling up into the evening sky, and people running, shouting, waving buckets and rags.

At first, I didn’t understand.

Then someone screamed my name.

“Miss Caroline! Your floor—it’s on fire!”

My blood froze. I turned, staring at the building I’d lived in for three years — the cracked walls, the pale blue balconies, the crooked satellite dishes. Fire was spilling from my windows, orange and alive, devouring everything I owned.

“No…” My voice came out as a whisper. “No, no, no—please!”

I ran toward the entrance, but someone grabbed me by the arm — Mr. Ade, my neighbor from downstairs. His face was covered in sweat and ash.

“You can’t go in there!” he shouted. “It’s too dangerous!”

“I have to—my things, my—”

But the heat slapped me in the face before I could finish. The fire roared louder than any protest I could make. The air itself burned. My throat filled with smoke, and my knees buckled as panic took over.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone pulled me back again, shouting for me to stay away.

I stood there, helpless, as the firefighters rushed in — thick suits, heavy hoses, shouting codes I couldn’t understand. The street had become chaos. Mothers clutched their crying children. Neighbors screamed for missing ones. The air was a tangle of sirens and prayers.

When the flames finally began to die, the crowd grew silent. All that was left of my apartment was a blackened shell, dripping water and ash.

I could taste metal in my mouth. I couldn’t tell if it was blood or just fear.

Hours passed in a blur — police cars, questions, and flashing lights. A detective arrived late, tall and calm, with the kind of face that gave away nothing. He stepped over the wreckage carefully, flashlight cutting through the smoke. I followed him as best I could, my heart pounding.

“Was anyone inside?” he asked, scribbling in his notepad.

“No,” I whispered. “I wasn’t home.”

“Good,” he said, glancing around. “You’re lucky. The fire started from your unit.”

That word — “your” — hit harder than I expected.

My home. My life. Gone.

He crouched by the charred wall, brushing away soot with a gloved hand. “No electrical faults. No gas explosion. This was deliberate… but clean. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”

“Deliberate?” I repeated, my voice barely audible.

He looked up at me, expression unreadable. “We’ll investigate. I assure you, Miss Caroline, the case will be taken care of.”

He said it like it was routine. Like my world hadn’t just burned down.

When they left, I stood in the street alone, hugging myself against the cold. Everything smelled like ruin. My phone felt heavy in my pocket. I pulled it out and dialed Kent’s number.

He answered on the first ring.