The first knock was soft. Almost hesitant.
Tyler sat frozen in the half-darkness of his apartment, the TV flickering on mute, his fingers digging crescent moons into the arm of the couch. He told himself it was a neighbor, a delivery gone to the wrong door. He told himself if he stayed perfectly still, whoever it was would leave.
The second knock came firmer, steady. Not urgent, not frantic. Patient.
Jackson.
Tyler knew it before he even rose, before he dragged himself to the door, every muscle stiff as though the weight of the apartment itself pressed against him. He should've ignored it. He should've let Jackson walk away. But the rhythm of that knock cut through the endless static in his head, and against all reason, his hand found the lock.
When the door opened, the smell of rain drifted in before Jackson did. His coat was soaked at the shoulders, dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead, and in his hands—two paper cups, steam curling into the hallway air. His eyes swept over Tyler quickly, reading the exhaustion, the pallor, the half-healed scratches disappearing beneath tugged-down sleeves.
"Jesus, Ty," Jackson muttered. No judgment in his voice but worry so heavy it almost staggered Tyler.
Without waiting, Jackson stepped inside. He moved like he had a right to be there, like he'd been inside a hundred times before, though Tyler couldn't remember the last time he'd let anyone through the door. The place looked worse with him in it: dishes piled in the sink, clothes abandoned in corners, curtains nailed shut against daylight.
Jackson set the cups down on the cluttered table. "Black. No sugar." He knew Tyler's order without asking.
Tyler's throat tightened. He hated that it mattered. He hated that it warmed something in his chest, even while the rest of him felt cold, fractured.
"You shouldn't be here," Tyler muttered. His voice was low, raw from disuse. "I told you I needed time."
Jackson shrugged out of his wet coat, hanging it over a chair. "And I told you I wasn't going to sit around watching you disappear."
The stubbornness in his tone should've infuriated Tyler, but instead, shame coiled deeper. He dragged a hand across his face, trying to hide the tremor in it. "You don't get it."
Jackson's gaze lingered on him—steady, patient, infuriatingly kind. Then he pulled out a chair. "Sit." Not a suggestion.
Tyler wanted to slam the door, to scream until Jackson left, until he could collapse back into the dark where no one could see him unravel. But instead, his body betrayed him. His knees bent, his hands found the rough edge of the table, and he sat.
The coffee's heat seeped through the cup into his hands, and for a second, it anchored him. But then he caught it—movement in the window. His reflection, warped by the glass, was smiling at him.
He blinked. Gone.
Jackson's voice broke through, low, careful. "You're scaring me, Tyler."
Tyler's chest went tight, breath shallow. He wanted to tell him to leave again. But the truth clawed its way up his throat, desperate, ugly.
"They're getting worse," he said.
Jackson leaned closer. "The headaches?"
Tyler shook his head, staring at his reflection in the black window. "The blackouts. I lose hours. Sometimes I wake up with bruises, cuts. And when I look in the mirror—" He stopped, choking on the words. His reflection shifted, lips curling in a grin only he could see.
Jackson's expression hardened, but not with disbelief. With concern. Real, unflinching concern.
"Then tell me," Jackson said. "Tell me what you see."
Tyler's jaw clenched, eyes burning. "Not me," he whispered. "It's not me staring back."
The words hung heavy between them.
For a moment, silence. Then Jackson, without hesitation: "Then let me carry some of this with you."
Tyler's laugh was bitter, broken. "What if it's me, Jackson? What if I'm the thing you should be afraid of?"
Jackson didn't flinch. His hand rested on the table, fingers twitching close enough to touch if Tyler only reached out. "Then we'll find out the truth. Together."
Something dangerous rose in Tyler's chest—hope, fragile and reckless. He turned toward Jackson, drawn to that steadiness, that warmth he didn't deserve. For just an instant, the storm inside him quieted.
But then the reflection in the window tilted its head, eyes glinting with amusement.
And Tyler's blood ran cold.