She remembers her first day was bad.

She was being briefed on a plane from LA to San Francisco about what exactly was going on. There were pictures, there were statements, there were so many different names and nicknames to learn. There were two dead people looking at her with the weight of their lives.

So much for small quiet town.

She looked again at the picture of a sink full of blood.

Stabbed in the back of the head 17 times. Water in the lungs. Broken cheekbone.

The doctor looked at her with dead unmoving eyes. There were bloody fingerprints lining the sink, the wall, the cabinets.

Tara Knowles fought hard.

Who did this to you?, she thought.

How so fitting that she remembers this now, on the day they're burying her husband.

Jax Teller has been dead for 6 days, and she doesn't know if that's good or bad anymore.

She hopes they bury him next to her.

-/-

She pinned the picture of Tara and her always-open eyes to her fridge after Jax's funeral. It's gruesome, it's horrible to look at. But she does.

She won't let herself forget what happened. A doctor, a mom, a wife, and they killed her.

Stabbed in the back of the head 17 times. Water in the lungs. Beaten.

They share the same middle name.

She is the third Sheriff to decide that she does not want to live in Charming after all. The last one did and look what happened to him. And his wife.

So she leaves her apartment and rents a house in Linden. It's a little bit too big, 3 full bedrooms, and she doesn't even have that much stuff, but it's at the end of a cul-de-sac and there's a little garden in the back. And it's safe. The town is minimal. There's a High School, a cemetery, a Pizza Plus and a delicatessen. It's quaint, she thinks. It's far away from all the horrible things that happened in Charming. The things that happen in Charming.

It's far away enough.

But still, he finds her. She doesn't know how, she hasn't even had time to update her paperwork yet (it makes her think they have someone watching her and it makes her heart race with panic and fear). He comes late at night. She hears the bike before he even turns on her street. And even though it's ridiculous, she hopes he is not here for her. But then it gets louder, louder, until it stops. It stops right in her driveway.

She's frozen. Terrified. There's cold, hard, real fear running through her veins.

(Stabbed in the back of the head, 17 times)

The shy, barely there knock-knock is so soft she thinks she can pretend she didn't hear it.

(Drowned)

He knocks again, louder.

(Beaten)

So impatient, she thinks, it almost makes her crack a smile.

KNOCK-KNOCK.

Her feet weigh 1000 lbs each. Still, they move her towards the door.

This is it, she thinks. This is how I die.

He is three steps away from his bike.

He's crying.

Oh. Oh, that's true.

(They buried his son today)

He comes to her in hurried steps.

"Are you here to kill me?" she says.

When he hugs her, she still doesn't know the answer.

-/-

They stay silent for a long time. They're sitting on her couch.

(His leg is shaking slightly and he hasn't looked at her since she sat him down)

"Why are you here, Filip?", she asks again. She's already asked twice and she's not sure anymore if this is him crying for Jax or crying for her.

"M'no' sure, darlin"" he finally says after a long pause. He is still looking straight ahead. His voice is pasty and drawn out. He smells strongly of whiskey. The drunkenness makes his accent thicker. "Bike brought me 'ere."

"I find that hard to believe." she quips, finally sitting down, and it makes him smile for maybe a millisecond.

(She makes sure to have at least 2 ft in between them)

(There's a gun taped to the underside of the end table and she thinks if she had to she'd be able to get it)

(She even thinks she'd be able to fire it)

Then they're quiet again, a silence so heavy, so filled with words, that it weighs down her shoulders. She watches as his hands move from knees to hair to cushion to knees again.

She thinks he's still crying.

She sits still for a lifetime.

Eventually her eyes start to close. The darkness surrounding her feels warm. Today was shit. Today needs to end soon.

"M'no' gonna kill ye, Althea" he says, very quietly, very slowly. "Dinnae think a could".

But she doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't want to hear whatever it is he has to say now. She doesn't trust him and it doesn't matter.

She doesn't think he should be at her house, but he is, and for some reason it doesn't bother her. She wishes it did.

If he is going to kill her, she wishes he'll have the decency to wait for her to fall asleep.

And she falls asleep feeling his hand go up and down her leg, up and down.

She doesn't know if she'll wake up.

-/-

She wakes up with the smell of coffee. It must be early, 5 or 6am. It's pitch black outside and the whole town is still asleep.

She doesn't know if she's more surprised that he stayed or that he found the coffee maker.

(Or that she's still alive)

"Morning" he says as he walks into the living room. He looks terrible. "Made some coffee"

She doesn't even know what to say. There are so many things to choose from.

(Why are you here?)

(I think I missed you)

(How did you find me?)

(I'm so sorry he's gone)

(Are you going to kill me?)

So she chooses the easiest thing for now:

"How did you find the coffee?"

"Took me a minute" he chuckles "I noticed ye haven't taken anything out of boxes yet".

His accent is much less present now, but the smell lingered. She realizes, much to her dismay, she kinda misses the thick vowels.

"Nice place" he adds as she gets up. "What made ye choose Linden?"

"It's small" she answers, walking into the kitchen. Most boxes are open, some packing paper thrown around.

She notices he put all the mugs in one of the cabinets.

"So is Charming".

And she really can't deny that.

She turns to him, a carton of milk on one hand, so many questions on the other. She hangs them over his head, little puppets that form the sad, sad play they're acting out. "What are you doing here Filip?"

He doesn't answer. He stands in the middle of her kitchen, all leather and dark jeans, holding the most ridiculous yellow mug. And he doesn't answer.

It's okay. She didn't really think he would.

Instead, he turns around, as if he had just realized he was late for something, and marches through her living room, out the door, and on his bike.

He is gone before she could even think to ask for the mug back.

And as her street gets quieter and quieter, she wonders if she may have imagined this whole thing. She wonders if maybe he was never here and she dreamed it all and he never said what she thinks he said.

Yes, she thinks. This never happened.

("I miss ye Althea")

(And he closed the door so carefully)

-/-

Author's note: thank yall for reading this. If you think its good, please leave a review. If you think it sucks, please most definitely leave a review haha. I have an idea of where I am going with this (and if you read my other stories you probably know), but i love suggestions!

Once again thank you very much.