54: The Angel and Her Saint

SERA

We sat in silence on the cold bench outside a convenience store. The hum of the neon sign above us was the only thing punctuating the silence.

Killian held a bottle of water between his hands, the plastic crinkling under his grip. His fingers were trembling, almost imperceptibly, but I saw it. I always saw it.

The night air was cool, but there were tiny beads of sweat along his temple, his jaw clenched tight. He took a slow sip, then another. As if the act of drinking was the only thing keeping him together.

And then his hand came up, pressing just above his right eye.

My chest tightened.

Of course.

The migraines. They always hit when the world demanded too much of him. When the stress mercilessly tightened its noose on him. I'd seen what the pain did to him. It was the kind that slammed into his skull like a freight train and didn't stop until he was on his knees. He always hid them and pushed through.

But he wasn't hiding it now.

Perhaps he was too exhausted to.

I swall