His body blocked the door like he'd always known it would come to this—like the hallway had been waiting for him.
Rain slid down his hair, traced the sharp angle of his jaw, darkened the collar of his jacket. He hadn't changed the way I expected time to change a man. If anything, it had sharpened him. Honed him into something quieter. More dangerous.
Behind him, the stairwell echoed with voices fading into distance. Shoes slapped concrete. Someone cursed. Then nothing.
Silence settled.
Not relief. Never relief.
"You shouldn't be standing there," I said, though my feet refused to move.
He didn't turn around. "And you shouldn't have come back."
His voice—low, familiar—slid under my skin like it still knew the way. Three years had passed. Three years of convincing myself I was over it. Over him. Over the version of myself that had believed love could be armor.
"You broke into my apartment," I said.
"I saved you from whoever was pretending to be management." He glanced back at me, eyes sharp. "You always did underestimate how fast things move here."
The door rattled again—once—then stilled. He locked it, slow and deliberate, like every sound mattered.
My chest tightened.
"You're bleeding," I said.
He looked down at his knuckles like it surprised him. "Not mine."
That was when I noticed the smear of red on his sleeve.
I swallowed.
"You brought danger to my door," I said.
He turned fully now, and the look he gave me wasn't defensive. It was regretful. "Danger followed you the moment you stepped off that bus."
The photograph lay on the floor between us. My name written on the back. The proof that I was no longer invisible.
He picked it up before I could stop him.
"They're getting sloppy," he said. "That means they're desperate."
"Who?" My voice cracked.
His eyes lifted to mine. "The people who thought you'd stay gone."
I folded my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how thin my walls were. How exposed I felt. "I didn't come back to fight ghosts."
"No," he said quietly. "You came back because the truth doesn't let go."
The words landed too close.
I turned away, pacing the room, every step a fight to keep control. "You don't get to speak like you know me anymore."
"I never stopped knowing you."
I laughed—once. Sharp. Bitter. "You disappeared."
"I was erased," he corrected.
I spun. "You left me to clean up the mess."
He stepped closer, and the air changed. "I left so you could live."
There it was. The line he'd never stop using.
My heart hated how badly it wanted to believe him.
"Tell me why they're watching me," I said. "Tell me what you did."
He hesitated.
That hesitation was louder than any confession.
I moved toward him before I could stop myself. "Say it."
His gaze flicked to the windows. To the door. To every shadow in the room. "Not here."
"Then where?"
"Somewhere with fewer ears."
I scoffed. "You think I'm leaving with you?"
"I think," he said, voice dropping, "that if you stay here tonight, you'll disappear before morning."
Fear crept up my spine, cold and deliberate.
"You always do this," I said. "You show up like a warning and expect me to follow."
"I'm not asking you to trust me," he said. "I'm asking you to survive."
The honesty in that nearly broke me.
I picked up my bag with shaking hands. "If this is another lie—"
He caught my wrist.
The contact was light. Careful. Like he was afraid I'd shatter.
Electricity surged anyway.
His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse. His eyes flicked there, then back to my face. Something unspoken passed between us—recognition, history, unfinished things.
"I won't touch you unless you ask," he said softly. "I won't lie unless I have to."
"That's not comforting."
"I know."
Outside, a car engine started. Then stopped.
He released me instantly, stepping back like discipline was a rule he lived by now.
"They're closer than I thought," he muttered.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
He saw it. His jaw tightened.
"Don't answer."
I ignored him and read the message.
You chose the wrong protector.
My blood ran cold.
Before I could show him, the lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
The building groaned. Somewhere below us, glass shattered.
He moved fast—pulling me down behind the couch, his body shielding mine, breath warm near my ear.
"Stay quiet," he whispered.
My heart pounded so hard I was sure they could hear it.
Footsteps entered the hallway.
A door across the hall burst open. Someone screamed.
My fingers curled into his jacket without permission.
He stilled—but didn't pull away.
"That's it," he murmured. "They're flushing us."
A flashlight beam sliced under the door.
I swallowed. "What did you do?"
He exhaled slowly. "I stole something."
The beam paused.
"Something that doesn't belong to men who forgive."
The handle jiggled.
"And they think I gave it to you?"
He turned his head slightly, lips close enough that the words brushed my skin. "They know you're the only one I ever trusted."
The door slammed inward.
He surged to his feet, dragging me up with him. "Window. Now."
"But it's three floors—"
"I'll catch you."
"You can't promise that."
"I always do."
The men flooded in, shouting my name.
Glass shattered as he kicked the window out.
Cold air rushed in. Sirens wailed somewhere far away.
He climbed onto the sill first, rain plastering his hair to his face. He reached for me.
For a split second, everything slowed.
The city roaring below.
His hand waiting.
My past and future tearing me in half.
"What did you steal?" I asked.
His eyes darkened.
"Your name."
Then the floor exploded beneath us.
And the world fell away.