What He Found, What I Hid

“Some things aren’t secrets. They’re just memories dressed in silence, hoping no one opens the door.”

One large turquoise towel hugged my frame tightly, its plush fibres clinging to the damp curves of my body, shielding me in a cocoon of warmth. A smaller cream towel sat precariously on my head, twisted into a lopsided turban, strands of wet hair peeking out rebelliously. I dragged my fingers through the strays that clung stubbornly to my cheeks, wringing out the last beads of water with a distracted precision. The act felt ritualistic, grounding—a rare moment of calm nestled in the chaos that had consumed the day.

The hallway stretched ahead like a corridor in a dream—familiar yet somehow surreal. Each step I took left behind damp impressions on the cream carpet, soft squelches marking my passage like ghostly footprints. I didn't bother looking down. Let them dry. Let them stain. I couldn't bring myself to care. The house was quiet, too quiet. Even the usual distant hum of the fridge or the creak of ageing floorboards felt subdued, muffled by a collective hush that seemed to have settled over the walls like fog.

With every footfall, I felt the weight of my solitude pressing in. The towel was warm, yes, but my chest was cold, hollow. I tried to focus on the comfort—the smell of clean cotton, the tickle of the towel fibres against my collarbone—but my thoughts kept pulling me elsewhere. To Duke. To Clivilius. To what waited downstairs.

Then I saw it.

My bedroom door—ajar. The light inside casting long, familiar shadows across the hallway carpet. And there, standing within the boundaries of my most private space, was Leigh.

I froze, the breath hitching in my throat. The comforting silence of the house shattered like glass underfoot. My sanctuary, my one untouched refuge, suddenly occupied by someone who shouldn't be there. Leigh’s presence, so unexpected, so unannounced, struck me like a slap—an intrusion that set every nerve ending alight with tension.

"Shit, Leigh! What the hell are you doing here?" The words burst from me before I could rein them in, crashing against the walls of my bedroom with far more force than I’d intended. My heart lurched into my throat, thudding with startled indignation as a sharp jolt of adrenaline ignited my nerves. The towel around my body suddenly felt less like a barrier and more like a vulnerability, and I instinctively clutched it tighter as I stepped fully into the room, slamming the door shut behind me. The click of the latch was loud, final—a shield hastily thrown up between this moment and any potential maternal witness.

Leigh’s eyes widened, guilt spreading across his face like a storm cloud. "Sorry," he said quickly, his voice low, weighed down by genuine contrition. It wasn’t the flippant kind of sorry you toss out to excuse some minor misstep—this one landed with sincerity, and that only made my reaction feel more tangled.

He looked… uncomfortable. Not caught-out mischief, but something deeper. His stance was sheepish, hands tucked awkwardly into his sleeves, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them now that he’d been seen. The expression in his eyes—remorse, confusion, something else I couldn’t place—cut through the haze of my anger for a moment.

"What, so you thought you'd lurk about in my room?" The accusation fell from my lips in a tone laced with incredulity. I felt my brow furrow, the sting of betrayal and invasion tightening behind my eyes. This room was mine—my haven, my sanctuary, the only place where the madness of Clivilius couldn’t reach me. And yet here he stood, in the centre of it, like an uninvited shadow.

Leigh winced. "No. I just meant that I didn't realise you were in the shower. If I knew, I would have left and come back later."

His voice cracked slightly on the word “later,” and I noted the way he fidgeted, shifting his weight between his feet. It was a poor excuse, flimsy and hurried, but something in it rang true. He hadn’t come in to be malicious—or at least I didn’t think so. Still, his timing couldn't have been worse.

"Unlikely," I muttered, turning from him before the storm of my expression gave too much away. The bitterness in my voice was softened only slightly by exhaustion. I padded across the room and opened a drawer, letting the motion occupy my hands and settle my nerves. The soft rustle of fabric was a balm against the dissonance of the encounter. I focused on selecting clothes, pretending it was just another normal day, pretending Leigh’s sudden presence hadn’t unsettled something already fragile in me.

But inside, I was still seething—at him, at myself, at the fact that today of all days, there was no peace to be had.

My fingers trailed over the fabrics in the closet, the soft cottons and knits slipping beneath my touch like familiar old friends. The cool, smooth textures and comforting routine grounded me, however tenuously, as I sifted through my belongings. Each metallic whisper of the coat hangers sliding along the rail pierced the silence, a steady rhythm to counter the chaotic beat of my thoughts. It was a mundane ritual, and for that reason, it helped. Something normal, something routine. Something mine.

After a moment’s hesitation, I extracted a pair of jeans and a top, the denim stiff and cold against my still-damp skin as I draped them over my shoulder. I hesitated again, then reached for a hooded sweater—a softer, looser garment, something that didn’t cling or demand too much of me. The moment the sleeve brushed against my forearm, pain flared. The fabric dragged across the thin scratches left by the night before, still tender, still raw.

It’s still winter, I reminded myself, a thought as much practical as it was emotional. The jumper would keep me warm, yes—but more importantly, it would cover the marks. Conceal what I couldn’t bear to explain. The idea of baring that part of myself—either physically or emotionally—was unthinkable. I needed the armour.

As I turned from the closet, arms full, I caught sight of Leigh out of the corner of my eye—and stilled.

He stood there awkwardly, like a boy caught in the act, clutching something that made my blood run cold.

In his hands hung the remnants of my dress. Not just any dress—the one I’d worn when the world started to unravel. It was unrecognisable now, a crumpled mess of fabric marred with bloodstains, the delicate hem torn and soiled. It dangled from his fingers like a limp accusation, a ghastly artefact from the night I’d fought for my life.

My eyes narrowed, my breath caught in my throat. The shock bled quickly into anger—a sharp, biting disbelief that hardened my gaze.

What the hell are you doing with that?

The question burned on my tongue, but I held it back, my body frozen in place, locked between past and present. The sight of the ruined garment, so casually held in Leigh’s hands, was more than I could stomach. It was a wound reopened. A memory dragged, uninvited, back into the light.

Leigh's face was a canvas of concern, his usual air of light-hearted mischief now replaced by sharp, drawn lines of worry. His brows furrowed in earnest, his posture tentative—like someone tiptoeing through a minefield, unsure which step would trigger the next explosion.

"Care to explain?" he questioned, voice calm but shadowed by something heavier, something that made my skin crawl. His eyes flicked between me and the tattered red dress with a scrutiny that made me feel exposed, peeled open layer by layer.

"What the fuck is your problem today!" The words erupted from me before I could contain them, a raw growl of fury that clawed its way from my throat. I snatched the dress from his grasp with a force that surprised even me, the stained fabric bunching in my fists. It was like being stripped of something sacred. A silent moment turned sacred was now interrogated under a fluorescent glare. "First you lurk in my room and now you demand an explanation."

"I'm concerned for you, Beatrix," he replied, softening his tone, the edges of his words rounded with something that might have been care. But all I heard was intrusion. All I felt was the heat rising in my chest, the suffocating grip of being cornered in my own story.

"Perhaps you should have been more concerned about me when you gave me that stupid device," I snapped, the words slicing through the space between us. I barely recognised my own voice—acidic, brittle, trembling at the edges. The fury masked something deeper, something far more dangerous. Fear. Betrayal.

"You mean the Portal Key?" His voice faltered just slightly, the question hesitant, careful—as though he’d only just realised how fragile I was in that moment.

"You didn’t give me any other device," I hissed, my breath catching. The dress in my hands trembled along with me, my grip on the bloodstained fabric tightening like a vice. Each thread, each stain, seemed to pulse with memory and consequence. The tremor in my hands grew, subtle at first, but steadily insistent, as if my body was starting to betray the emotions I could no longer restrain.

Leigh’s eyes softened, but I turned away before he could speak again, unwilling to see pity—or worse, guilt—staring back at me.

As Leigh advanced towards me, my eyes locked onto his with an intensity that must have scorched. It wasn’t just a glare—it was a silent scream, a warning flare fired from behind my ribcage. Whatever he saw in my expression made him stop dead, as though he’d walked headlong into a wall of fire. The space between us pulsed, thick with electricity, charged by all that had been said—and all that hadn’t. The moment bristled, raw and volatile, and then it hit me: that familiar, infernal burn rising within. It coiled through my chest and along my arms like a warning, flickers of something uncontainable stirring awake.

"Now, get out so I can get dressed," I said, willing my voice to land with authority, to slam the door on this unbearable vulnerability. But it faltered—just slightly—on the final word, cracking like thin ice under pressure. I hated that he could hear it, hated more that I couldn't stop it. The break betrayed me, like a frayed edge slipping from beneath an otherwise seamless disguise.

For a long beat, neither of us moved. The silence was almost tangible, pressing in around us, a fog of unsaid truths and barely restrained emotion. Leigh’s face was unreadable, caught in a war between concern and restraint. Then, finally, he nodded, the movement small but decisive. "I'll return in ten," he said, the words falling with quiet finality.

He could have left the usual way—could have summoned the Portal right there, dazzling and instant. The air in my room always felt thinner when he did. But this time, he refrained. I recognised the choice for what it was: not hesitation, but privacy.

The door shut behind him with a soft thud, and with it, a breath I hadn't realised I’d been holding slipped from my lungs. Then came the shiver—sharp, immediate. It raced through my arms like a tremor, not born of cold, but of instinct. I recognised it instantly. Somewhere just beyond view, a Portal had been opened. Its silent glow hummed, patient and pulsing, waiting.

The moment I was alone, the floodgates gave way. Rage, grief, exhaustion—every emotion I’d kept caged behind clenched teeth and tired eyes erupted in a single, volatile act. I tore the clean clothes from my shoulders with a sharp yank, the fabric slipping through my fingers and crumpling into a chaotic mound on the bed. The soft thud as they landed barely registered—everything was noise now, inside and out.

"Fucking shadow panther," I spat, my voice raw and low, the venom in those words bitter on my tongue. My eyes locked onto the bloodstained dress, that wretched scrap of red now limp where Leigh had left it—carelessly, thoughtlessly, like it was just a ruined garment and not the physical residue of my trauma.

I snatched it up in one jerking movement. The material was stiff in places, dark patches etched like scars. My hands trembled slightly as I crossed the room, flinging the dress into the wastebasket beside my desk. The sound of it hitting the plastic liner was far too soft, unsatisfyingly quiet for what I needed it to mean. I wanted a crash, a bang, something final. But instead, it just slumped there, barely a whisper.

Mechanically, I dressed. Jeans. Jumper. Movements practised, perfunctory. Nothing delicate about it. My limbs worked on autopilot, each tug of fabric a silent command to just keep going. The clock’s rhythmic ticking taunted me, reminding me that Leigh would return soon. The thought of him catching me mid-change again set my jaw on edge. I wouldn’t give him another reason to violate my boundaries—no matter how well-intentioned he claimed to be.

A sudden spike of pain pulsed at my temple, hot and sharp, as if my skull were cracking open from the pressure. I winced, fingers lifting instinctively to massage the spot in slow circles. It didn’t help. Nothing really helped anymore.

Eyes closed, I drew in a shaky breath, but before I could exhale, a knock—a soft, almost timid tapping—broke the silence like a pinprick to glass.

Every muscle tensed. I edged toward the door, dread pooling in my stomach like cold water. Mum? I couldn’t take her questions right now. I wasn’t ready. But then came Leigh’s voice, hushed but insistent: "Beatrix."

Relief was fleeting, replaced swiftly by irritation.

Still, I opened the door. He stood there, not sheepish exactly, but aware—of me, of the storm still brewing behind my eyes.

Without a word, I stepped aside, allowing him in. The door clicked shut behind us with a quiet finality, the sound oddly satisfying in its own way. Another boundary drawn, another fragile sanctuary sealed tight—for now.