Iris didn't notice it at first.
The way he lingered just a little too long at the doorway. The way he always knew when she would pause mid-step, or glance at her phone. The way his laughter filled rooms with warmth, but carried a weight she couldn't name.
Rowan was always present. Always attentive. Always watching.
At first, she had told herself it was love. Protection. Care.
Now, she wasn't so sure.
Her phone buzzed again, a single vibration that made her stomach drop. She didn't check it.
She didn't need to.
She already knew what it would say:
You're thinking too much again.
She swallowed.
She couldn't shake the feeling that her entire life had been cataloged: her fears, her habits, the streets she walked at night. Every small movement noted. Every pause recorded.
The Unknown wasn't a stranger lurking somewhere in the city.
The Unknown had always been closer. Too close.
That night, Rowan cooked. Garlic, butter, pasta—the smell filled the apartment. He hummed off-key as usual, but the melody was measured. She noticed the patterns: the way he stirred the sauce, the rhythm of his steps across the floor.
He caught her staring. "What is it?"
Iris forced a smile. "Nothing."
He didn't press, just offered her his hand. "Come here," he said.
She went. His grip was warm. Familiar. Comforting. But every instinct she had screamed at her: This is not normal.
Later, while brushing her teeth, she noticed the phone again. The screen lit up, although she had left it face-down.
I just want you safe.
The words should have reassured her.
Instead, they sent a chill down her spine.
Because she knew who had written them.
Rowan was behind her in the bathroom doorway, watching. He smiled, brushing her hair back from her face. "Long day?"
She nodded, silent. Her pulse thrummed like a warning bell.
"You can trust me," he said softly.
Iris stared at her reflection in the mirror, her own eyes wide and unsteady. Was she imagining the way his gaze lingered? Or had she finally begun to see clearly?
The feeling that had been gnawing at her chest—the unease, the constant pull of eyes on her—wasn't coming from the city anymore. It had a shape. It had a name.
It had hands.
She didn't know whether to scream, cry, or flee.
Instead, she closed her eyes, counted to ten, and tried to steady herself.
Because she had learned one thing over the past weeks:
The danger wasn't outside.
It was in the arms of the person she loved.
The person who had promised her safety.
The person who was slowly, quietly, holding her in a cage made of care, obsession, and control.
Outside, the city lights glowed, indifferent and alive.
Inside, Iris realized that the most terrifying unknown wasn't a stranger in the dark.
It was the one who claimed to know her best.
And she didn't know if she could escape him without breaking herself.