The grocery store on Thursday afternoon was bright and loud. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A kid somewhere near the cereal aisle was screaming about Lucky Charms. I pushed the cart down the produce section, Finley riding in the front, his legs swinging.

"Can we get grapes, Mommy?"

"Sure, baby."

I reached for a bag, checking it for bruises, when I felt it. That prickle on the back of my neck. The one that says someone's watching.

I turned.

Across the aisle, pretending to examine apples, was Alonzo.

Milena stood beside him in a soft pink cardigan, her hand resting on his arm. She saw me looking and smiled. Small. Sad. Like she pitied me.

My hand tightened on the bag of grapes.

Alonzo waved. Casual. Friendly. Like we were neighbors.

I turned the cart and walked the other direction. Fast.

"Mommy, what about the grapes?"

"We'll get them next time."

I didn't look back. But I felt them watching until I reached the checkout.

***

Saturday morning, I took Finley to the coffee shop on Bragg Boulevard. The one with the good muffins and the corner table where I could see the door.

We were halfway through a blueberry muffin when the bell over the door chimed.

Alonzo walked in. Milena behind him.

They ordered at the counter. Alonzo laughed at something the barista said. Milena tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled sweetly.

They sat three tables away.

Not next to us. Not approaching. Just... there.

Finley didn't notice. He was building a tower out of sugar packets.

I pulled out my phone and typed the date, time, and location into my notes app. Third encounter this week.

When I looked up, Milena was watching Finley. Her eyes were soft and wet.

I stood, scooped Finley up, and left our muffin on the table.

"Mommy, I wasn't done."

"We'll get another one at home."

Outside, I buckled him into his car seat and locked the doors before I let myself breathe.

***

Monday, the park. After school. Finley loved the swings.

I pushed him higher and higher, his laughter bright and clear, and tried not to scan the perimeter every thirty seconds.

But I did.

And there they were. Sitting on a bench near the slide. Alonzo in his uniform. Milena beside him, hands folded in her lap.

They weren't looking at me. They were looking at Finley.

I stopped pushing.

"Mommy, don't stop!"

"Time to go, baby."

"But we just got here!"

"Now."

I lifted him out of the swing mid-protest and carried him to the car. He kicked his feet and whined, but I didn't put him down until we were inside with the doors locked.

In the rearview mirror, Alonzo raised his hand. A small wave.

I drove home and added it to the list.

***

That night, Seth came home late. I heard the front door, the sound of his boots in the hall, and then he was standing in the kitchen doorway, still in uniform, his face unreadable.

"He's following us," I said.

I didn't say hello. Didn't ask about his day. Just said it.

Seth crossed the room in two strides and took the notebook from my hands. He read it in silence. His jaw tightened with every line.

"This is stalking."

"He's not breaking any laws. He's just... there. Every time I turn around."

Seth set the notebook down and pulled me against him. His hand cupped the back of my head.

"I'm handling it."

"How?"

"Trust me."

I closed my eyes and pressed my face into his chest. I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

But Alonzo's smile kept replaying in my head.

***

Wednesday morning, I was alone.

Seth was on base. Finley was at preschool. I was folding laundry in the living room, the TV on low for background noise, when the pounding started.

Not knocking. Pounding.

I froze, a towel half-folded in my hands.

The pounding came again. Harder.

"Open the door, Rowan!"

A man's voice. Loud. Angry.

I moved to the window and looked out through the edge of the curtain.

A man stood on the porch. Late fifties, thick around the middle, red-faced. I didn't recognize him.

But the resemblance to Alonzo was unmistakable.

"I know you're in there!" he shouted. "Open this door!"

My heart kicked against my ribs.

I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over Seth's contact, and walked to the door. I didn't open it. Just stood close enough to be heard.

"Who are you?"

"Harold Morgan. Alonzo's father. And I want to see my grandson."

My stomach dropped.

"You need to leave."

"That boy is a Morgan. You don't get to keep him from his family."

"Finley is Seth Ward's son. You have no claim."

"Bullshit!" Harold's voice cracked. "That's my blood in there. My grandson. And you're keeping him from us because you're selfish and—"

"If you don't leave my property right now, I'm calling the MPs."

Silence.

Then: "You'll regret this."

Footsteps. Heavy. Retreating.

I stayed at the door, phone in hand, until I heard a car engine start and fade down the street.

Then I sank onto the floor, back against the door, and pressed my thumbnail into my palm until it left a deep red crescent.

When Seth called twenty minutes later, I told him everything.

His voice was very quiet.

"Lock every door. Every window. I'm sending someone."

"Seth—"

"Do it now, Rowan."

I did.

And I sat on the couch with my phone in my lap, staring at the door, until I heard the knock—three slow, deliberate raps—and a calm voice:

"Mrs. Ward, it's Staff Sergeant Delgado. Commander Ward sent me."

I opened the door.

A man in fatigues stood on the porch, his expression steady and professional.

"Ma'am, I'll be posted outside until the Commander gets home."

I nodded. My throat was too tight to speak.

Delgado took up position on the porch, hands clasped, eyes scanning the street.

I closed the door and finally, finally let myself breathe.

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and old magazines. I sat in the consultation room while Dr. Patel reviewed Finley's chart, her voice a steady hum about growth percentiles and vitamin D. Through the door, I could hear the muted sounds of the waiting room—a baby crying, the receptionist's phone ringing, Finley's bright voice saying something about dinosaurs.

I'd left him at the building blocks table. Five minutes. Maybe six.

Dr. Patel was still talking, pen moving across the chart, when something cold dropped into my stomach.

I stood.

"Mrs. Ward?"

"I need to check on my son."

I didn't wait for a response. I pushed through the door into the waiting room and stopped.

Milena was crouched beside Finley at the low table, her pale yellow dress pooling around her knees. She had one hand on his shoulder. The other held a small brown bottle.

"It's okay, sweetie," she was saying, her voice soft and trembling. "It's just a vitamin. It'll make you feel better."

Finley pulled back, his face uncertain. "My mommy gives me my vitamins."

The nurse—Claire, her name tag said—stood a few feet away, watching with sympathetic eyes. "Poor thing," she murmured to the receptionist. "She told me she lost a son about his age. Can you imagine?"

I crossed the room in four strides.

"Get away from him."

Milena's head snapped up. Her eyes went wide and wet. "I was just—"

I grabbed the bottle from her hand.

The label was small, dense with text. I scanned it once. Twice. My vision tunneled.

Adult dosage. Twelve years and older. Contains ingredients that cause severe drowsiness. Do not exceed recommended dose.

My hands started shaking.

"What the hell is this?"

Milena stood slowly, pressing one hand to her chest. "I'm so sorry. I thought—I take it for my anxiety, and I just thought—"

"This is an adult medication." My voice was too loud. People were staring. I didn't care. "You tried to give my five-year-old an adult dose of cold medicine."

"No, I—" Milena's voice cracked. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I was confused. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean what? To drug my son?"

Claire stepped forward, her face uncertain. "Mrs. Ward, I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding—"

"Call security."

Claire blinked. "I don't think that's—"

"Call them. Now."

I pulled Finley against my side. He was quiet, his small hand clutching my shirt. I could feel him trembling.

Milena was crying harder now, her shoulders shaking. "Please, I didn't mean to scare anyone. I'm just—I lost my son, and when I saw him, I thought—"

"You don't get to touch my child." I held up the bottle. "This is dangerous. You know that. And you tried to give it to him anyway."

The waiting room had gone silent. Everyone was watching.

Milena covered her face with her hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

A man in a dark blue uniform appeared in the doorway. Security. His gaze swept the room and landed on me.

"Ma'am, what's the problem?"

I handed him the bottle. "This woman tried to give my five-year-old an adult-dose medication without my consent. I want a formal incident report filed."

He took the bottle, read the label, and his expression hardened. "Ma'am," he said to Milena. "I need you to come with me."

Milena looked up, mascara streaking her cheeks. "Please, it was an accident. I would never—"

"Now, ma'am."

She stood slowly, her movements fragile and trembling, and followed him toward the back office. Before she disappeared through the door, she looked back at Finley one last time. Her face was soft. Longing.

I turned away.

Claire approached carefully, her hands folded. "Mrs. Ward, I'm so sorry. I had no idea—"

"I need copies of your security footage. From the moment she entered the waiting room until now."

Claire hesitated. "I'll have to check with—"

"Check. I'll wait."

She nodded and disappeared behind the reception desk.

I crouched down in front of Finley. His eyes were big and worried.

"Mommy, did I do something bad?"

"No, baby." I cupped his face in my hands. "You did exactly right. You told her no. I'm so proud of you."

"Who was she?"

"Nobody."

I pulled him into my arms and held him tight, pressing my face into his hair. My heart was still slamming against my ribs. My hands were still shaking.

But Finley was safe.

When Claire returned fifteen minutes later with a printed incident report and a promise that the footage would be saved and provided upon official request, I signed everything with a hand that left the pen shaking on the paper.

Outside, the sunlight was too bright again. I buckled Finley into his car seat, checked the locks twice, and sat behind the wheel with my phone in my hand.

I called Seth.

He picked up on the first ring.

"Rowan?"

"She tried to drug him."

Silence. Then his voice, very quiet: "Where are you?"

"The clinic. We're leaving now."

"Come straight home. Don't stop anywhere."

"Okay."

"Rowan." His voice softened, just a fraction. "You did good."

I closed my eyes. My throat was too tight to answer.

I drove home with both hands on the wheel, checking the rearview mirror every thirty seconds, and didn't breathe easy until we were inside with every door locked and Finley safely building a tower out of blocks on the living room floor.

My phone buzzed.

Seth: *Delgado's outside. I'm coming home early.*

I set the phone down and watched Finley play, his voice bright and unbothered as he narrated a battle between a T-rex and a triceratops.

Safe.

For now.