CHAPTER 40: WHAT’S THE POINT OF SPEAKING

The gym was too bright.

Sera stood behind the front desk, folding towels that didn’t need folding, the creases in each square already razor-sharp. Her fingers moved automatically, precise in a way only repetition and rage could achieve. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and the familiar bass-thump of workout music pulsed through the speakers like a second heartbeat. She tuned it out. Not the sound, but the meaning. It wasn’t music today. It was just noise.

Everything was just noise.

Someone laughed near the squat rack. Another slammed a barbell against the mat. Water bottles snapped open. Shoes squeaked. A phone rang. She flinched at none of it—but she heard all of it. Every sound had an edge, and each one grated against the surface of her composure like sandpaper.

The creature inside her was twitchy. Restless. Not hungry, not violent. Just... irritated.

Wrong.

And then, the door opened.

Sera didn’t look up immediately, but she felt it. A change in pressure. The way the air pulled a little tighter around her spine. Her eyes lifted slowly, and there he was.

Noah.

He walked in like he belonged. Like this was just another shift, just another gym, just another day. He wore dark joggers and a hoodie unzipped over a gray t-shirt. His hair was slightly damp from the wind, and there was a lightness in his step that made her stomach churn.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

But her fingers curled around the towel in her hand, squeezing once before setting it down too carefully. Her jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

The creature pressed up against her ribcage, unsettled.

And she knew why. There was something off about him. Something the rest of the world seemed blind to. The way his footsteps fell just slightly out of rhythm. The smell of old copper and pine beneath the synthetic cologne. The subtle twist in his smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Her eyes tracked him like prey.

Lachlan appeared beside her a moment later, smiling. She hadn’t even heard him approach.

"Hey—" he started gently, reading the tension in her body, but she cut him off before he could finish.

"No one listens," she said flatly. Her voice was low, not angry—worse than angry. "So I think I’ll stop talking. It’s a waste of breath."

He paused, caught off guard by the hollowness behind her words. The towel she’d been folding slid half off the counter, hanging like a white flag from her fingertips.

"Sera..."

She stepped back before he could reach for her, eyes still locked on the hallway Noah had disappeared into. "I need a break. I’ll be in your office."

And then she was gone.

Lachlan closed the door behind them a moment later, locking out the fluorescent brightness and muffled music. His office was dimmer, quieter, warmer. He perched on the edge of his desk, arms resting on his knees as she stood stiffly across from him, arms folded, spine straight, eyes distant.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Talk to me."

"There’s nothing to say."

"There’s always something to say."

She didn’t answer. Not right away. She turned her head slightly, looking at the bookshelf against the far wall—the mess of field manuals and unfiled paperwork, a single cracked coffee mug with a bear claw logo. Something grounded. Something real.

Then finally—

"I warned them," she whispered. "I told them what was coming. Food shortages. Unstable weather patterns. The risk of another lockdown, maybe even civil unrest. I told them calmly. Rationally. I even gave them examples. My sister laughed. My mother scheduled a therapist."

Her voice wavered—just for a second. Her arms wrapped tighter around herself, like they were all that kept her together.

"And now I’m the crazy one."

Lachlan didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Just watched her with a look that held no judgment, no pity. Only attention. Focus.

"I’ve been prepping," she continued, her voice gaining steel. "I’ve been learning. Working. Stocking supplies. Making sure I’d survive. Not hurting anyone. Not joining a cult. Not building a bunker out of paranoia. Just being ready for what is coming. And apparently, storing rice and learning how to properly can a can of vegetables is a mental health crisis. Not that I am canning vegetables."

She scoffed bitterly.

Lachlan’s brow furrowed. "You really think next winter’s going to be that bad?"

She looked up at him sharply. "It’s been too warm. Too wet. The harvest will rot. The bugs will spread. The balance always snaps back. Maybe not next month. Maybe not this season. But it’s coming. The cold will come like it’s owed something."

There was something primal in her voice. Something older than logic.

"I believe you."

His words hit her like an unexpected wind.

She blinked. "You do?" she asked, her voice softer as she cocked her head to the side.

He nodded slowly as he forced his muscles to relax. "Yeah. I don’t know why. But I do."

She stared at him, trying to decide if that made him a fool or something else entirely.

"You’re the first," she said quietly.

"What?"

"You’re the first person who hasn’t looked at me like I’m unraveling."

Lachlan exhaled slowly, standing up. He crossed the small room and leaned against the desk beside her. Not too close. Just... there. Solid. Unmoving.

"I don’t think you’re unraveling," he said. "I think you’re exhausted. I think you’re carrying more than you should be alone. And I think this world has a really shitty way of punishing people who see things early."

Her jaw tightened.

"And I think Noah walking in like sunshine on tap isn’t helping."

That pulled a flicker of a reaction from her. The barest curve at the edge of her mouth.

"He’s not right," she murmured.

"I know."

"Not just a bad vibe. There’s something wrong with him. I don’t trust him further than I could throw him."

Lachlan’s smile faded. "You’re not the only one."

She turned to look at him directly. "He’s your friend."

"He was my friend." Lachlan shrugged, almost helplessly. "A long time ago. But you’re right. Something’s changed. And if someone I trusted felt what you feel about him? I’d be an idiot not to listen."

The silence that followed was different than the one before. Not tense. Not heavy. Just quiet. The kind that sits between people when the hard part’s over.

Sera let her arms fall to her sides. Her fingers flexed once. Then she finally sat—lowered herself onto the one worn chair in the corner, and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, head bowed.

"I don’t think I can say anything else," she said. "Not to them. Not anymore. I tried. I gave them what I had. Now they’ll have to survive winter without me."

Lachlan was quiet for a beat. Then—

"I’m listening," he said. "If you ever want to keep talking."

She looked up. And this time, she let the mask slip a little.

Not all the way. But enough.

"Thank you."