I didn't dream.
Or if I did, I left the dreams behind when I woke. What lingered instead was heat. Not from the sheets or the body that had curled around mine, but from somewhere deeper. A low burn under my skin, spreading like smoke trapped beneath glass. It didn't ache. Not exactly. But it made me restless.
James was gone.
The clock on the nightstand said ten-forty. Too late for morning, too early to call it afternoon. Rain still pattered at the windows in soft pulses, and the sky beyond was a dull smear of gray. I stretched slowly, half-expecting soreness, but it wasn't pain I found, just the ache of memory. The shape of his hands. The weight of his mouth. The thread that wasn't around my neck anymore, but still felt wrapped tight inside me.
The apartment was quiet when I padded out barefoot. My toes curled against the chilled wood floors, and I paused, taking in the muted space. The couch was empty. No steaming cup of coffee waiting, no folded blanket. Just stillness, and a note pinned to the fridge with a magnetic paperclip.
Be back by noon. Lock the door.
I touched the paper without taking it down. The letters were slanted, sharp, written in the same rushed scrawl I'd seen on the papers in his study. My name wasn't on it. He hadn't needed to write it.
I made tea instead of coffee. Sat by the window wrapped in the throw blanket from the couch. The rain had thickened, no longer a whisper but a steady hush, and the city looked like it had been painted in watercolor. Edges soft. Colors bleeding. The fog pressed close against the glass.
I could've stayed there for hours. I almost did.
Until something shifted.
It wasn't loud. Not a knock. Not a voice. Just a presence. That strange hair-raising tension that prickled the back of my neck and made me freeze with the teacup halfway to my lips. My eyes went to the hallway.
The door was locked.
But the presence was already inside.
It took less than a second to know something was wrong.
The shift in air pressure. The faint scuff of leather against wood. I moved without thinking, setting the cup down and crossing to the kitchen in three quiet steps. I didn't have a weapon. I didn't have training. But I had instinct.
And I knew that whatever had entered the apartment wasn't James.
The figure emerged from the hallway like it had always belonged there. Dark clothes. Shaved head. One gloved hand tucked into his coat, the other empty. His eyes found me immediately. No hesitation. No surprise. Just confirmation.
"You're her."
The voice was low. Crooked. Not threatening, but not casual either. I didn't answer. I backed toward the living room, heart hammering so hard it made my ribs ache.
"Where is he?"
I shook my head. He didn't ask again. He stepped forward. Not fast. Just steady.
I turned to run.
The door wasn't far, but he moved faster. Too fast. A blur of shadow, breath, heat. I stumbled as he caught my arm, slamming me back against the wall with a thud that knocked the air out of me. One arm pinned my shoulder. The other reached toward his coat.
Then the room shifted.
A slam. A growl. A rush of wind that wasn't wind.
James.
He hit the man like a weapon. No warning. No words. Just raw, violent motion. They crashed into the dining table. Wood splintered. The intruder let out a grunt as James pinned him, elbow driving into his throat. I scrambled away, heart in my mouth, watching as the man thrashed beneath him.
"You don't touch her," James hissed.
The intruder choked out a laugh. "She's already marked."
That was the last thing he said before James silenced him.
Permanently.
I didn't breathe again until it was over. James stood, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles. The man lay crumpled against the floor, motionless. A thread of red leaked from the corner of his mouth, painting the pale wood beneath him.
James didn't look at me right away. He stared down at what he'd done like he wasn't quite ready to return to the world. Like he still wasn't sure if he'd gone too far, or not far enough.
When he did look at me, it wasn't with guilt.
It was with possession.
"Are you hurt?"
I shook my head.
He moved to me, slow. Careful. Reached for my arms and touched them like they might shatter.
"He laid hands on you."
"Only for a second."
His eyes darkened. "That was one second too long."
I let him pull me close. Felt the heat still radiating from his skin, the tremble in his hands that said he wasn't done unraveling. But he held me like I was the tether this time.
And I didn't let go.
The silence that followed was thick. Not awkward, just full. Like the air had to settle around what had happened before it could hold words again.
James didn't move at first. His arms stayed around me, his chin resting lightly against my temple. The steady rhythm of his heart felt like a countdown.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes flicked to the corpse.
"We have to move him."
My breath hitched. "Where?"
"Someplace they won't find him."
I didn't ask who "they" were. Not yet. The muscles in his jaw were tight, and there was something unspoken curling behind his eyes.
We wrapped the body in one of his coats. Not the good ones. Just a thick, dark wool from the hall closet. James carried it out without a word, and I followed, pulse thundering in my throat.
We drove in silence. Through the rain. Through the gray. Through parts of the city I'd never seen. James didn't turn on the radio. Didn't speak. His knuckles were white on the wheel.
The alley he pulled into looked like it belonged to another world, brick soaked with grime, dumpsters rusted through. He opened the trunk, hauled the body out, and heaved it into a broken maintenance shaft behind a collapsed wall.
I watched.
He turned, closed the trunk, and pulled me in.
"You're safe now," he said.
I didn't ask how he knew.
I just believed him.
Back at the apartment, silence settled again. But it wasn't cold. It wasn't fear. It was something more fragile. Like glass balanced on the edge of a table.
I changed clothes slowly, my hands shaky. James watched me from the doorway, eyes dark but calm. He looked like he'd walked through fire and hadn't bothered to check for burns.
"I need to tell you some things," he said at last.
I nodded.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, gaze on the floor.
"There are people looking for me. People I used to work with. Things I walked away from. They don't like loose ends. And you're not one. But to them, you might look like one."
"The man today, was he one of them?"
"Yes. A scout."
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. "And now?"
"Now, they'll know I haven't changed. That I'm not soft. That I'll do whatever it takes."
I stepped closer. Put a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm not afraid of what you've done. I'm afraid of losing what this is."
He looked up at me, something raw in his eyes.
"Then stay."
"I already did."
The tension broke. Not with laughter. Not with tears. But with the way his fingers tangled in mine. The way his forehead leaned into my stomach. The way he whispered my name like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
We didn't undress. Didn't fuck. Didn't run.
We just stayed.
Together.
And for that one fragile night, the world held its breath.