I’m not registered here. Silver Sands isn’t my home – not officially. And even if I could get an emergency appointment, I’d have to give details. Address. NHS number. Paper trailsI’ve spent years making damn sure don’t intersect in the wrong places.
Calling my old GP isn’t an option either.
The idea of my father’s name appearing anywhere near my records makes my skin crawl. He has ways of finding things out. Always has. It only takes one misplaced flag, one curious question, and suddenly my carefully constructed distance collapses in on itself.
No doctors. Not unless I’m dying.
I swallow hard and set the phone aside.
You’re fine, I tell myself again.You’ve been worse than this.
But the lie doesn’t sit right.
Sometime around midday, the house starts to feel too quiet. Too empty. The silence presses in, making every sensation louder – my pulse, my breathing, the low, restless ache coiling in my belly like something waking up.
I get dressed and leave the house before I can overthink it.
Fresh air. That’s what I need. Movement. Noise. People. Something normal to drown out the restless pull under my skin.
The grill isn’t busy when I get there – just a handful of locals nursing late coffees, the windows fogged slightly from the lingering damp outside. The bell over the door chimes softly as I step in, and for a moment, the smell of espresso and warm sugar grounds me.
Then I see Finn.
Relief hits – quick and sharp – followed by something quieter that doesn’t quite settle.
He’s at the counter, sleeves pushed up, talking to Pete with that easy, familiar confidence he seems to carry everywhere. When he spots me, his expression shifts – just slightly. Concern flickering before he smooths it away.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Day off?”
I nod. “Supposed to be.”
He studies me for a beat longer than necessary. “You alright?”
The answer is already on my tongue. Automatic. Practised. “Yeah.”
The lie slips out too easily. But something strange happens as I stand there – close enough to feel his presence, to register the warmth of him like a steady hum: the buzzing under my skin eases. Not gone. Just…muted. Like whatever’s driving it has stepped back instead of settling.
Not gone. Not fixed. But quieter. Like someone’s turned the volume down just enough that I can think again. My breathing slows without me telling it to. The tight knot in my stomach loosens, just a fraction.
I blink, thrown.
It’s not the same as before. Not the same as when Koa was standing too close in the kitchen, watching me like that. This is…different.
Finn doesn’t say anything. Just hands me a mug without asking – tea, the way I like it. I wrap my hands around it and realise they’re not shaking anymore.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, like he’s noticed too.
I tell myself it’s a coincidence. Comfort. Familiarity. The placebo effect of being seen.
It has to be.
Still, when I leave twenty minutes later – tea finished, colour slowly returning to my cheeks – the chill creeps back in before I’ve even made it halfway up the hill. Sharper this time. Hungrier
By the time I reach home, my skin is buzzing again, heat pooling low in my belly, my head swimming like I never left at all.
I stand in the doorway, keys clenched in my fist, dread curling deep in my chest.
Whatever this is, it’s not going away on its own. And whatever it is – it doesn’t feel like itwantsto be handled alone.