“Rowan.”
“I’m still deciding what it means,” I counter evenly. “Reporting something vague without context draws attention I don’t want.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. She doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t argue either. Lila understands that I look for patterns before I react.
“You’re not overreacting,” she states, more firmly than before. “If that helps.”
It does, more than I expected.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” she adds.
“I appreciate that,” I reply, and mean it. “But I have errands after.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re not going alone.”
“I’m not helpless,” I remind her gently.
“I didn’t say you were,” she huffs, folding her arms. “I said you’re not walking into uncertainty alone.”
The word uncertainty sends a chill up my spine. We compromise on a check-in text once I reach my apartment. It’s not ideal, but it avoids escalation before I understand what I’m dealing with.
The afternoon drags. I finish consultation notes, review imaging, field questions from residents, and give concise answers that leave little room for misinterpretation. By the time my shift ends, my shoulders ache with tension I haven’t allowed myself to release.
The walk to the parking lot feels longer than usual. My keys sit threaded between my fingers, a habit rooted in practicality rather than fear. My eyes scan the lot. Nothing appears out of place. No footsteps in sync with mine. No engines idling. Still, the feeling of being watched follows me.
The drive home passes in a blur of brake lights and familiar turns. I pull into my apartment complex as dusk gives way to low light, the sky dimming above the buildings. The lot is quiet, cars scattered unevenly across their spaces.
I notice the door the moment I reach my apartment. It’s locked with the deadbolt in place. The frame, however, shows faint marks along the edge, shallow impressions near the latch that don’t belong. They’re subtle enough that I might have missed them under different circumstances.
My stomach clenches in response. I step back into the hallway without touching the handle, my pulse quickening as I take in the rest of the scene. The carpet lies flat. The lights hum softly overhead. No obvious disturbance.
I reach for my phone. Ethan answers on the second ring.
“Ro?” His voice reaches me over the faint echo of movement, radios, and engines in the background. “You okay?”
“I’m at my apartment,” I answer, keeping my tone calm. “The door shows signs of tampering. I didn’t go inside.”
“Stay put,” he instructs firmly. “I’m ten minutes out.”
True to his word, Ethan arrives quickly, his EMT jacket unzipped, his radio clipped to his belt, and the keys jingling softly as he approaches. He looks me over quickly before his attention goes to the door.
“Did you touch it?” he asks.
“No,” I assure him.
“Good.”
He positions himself between me and the door without thinking, his body language automatic and protective. I feel thefamiliar mix of comfort and guilt that always surfaces when he does this. He shouldn’t have to.
He checks the lock, the frame, and the windows in a methodical way I recognize from my own work. His hands trail along surfaces, his eyes scanning for signs of entry.
“Nothing obvious,” he reports after a moment.
“That’s my concern.”
We step inside together, his presence filling the space. The apartment looks exactly as I left it. Shoes aligned. Counters clear. Nothing missing or disturbed. But that doesn’t reassure me.
Ethan notices the tension in my shoulders and the way my eyes scan every corner.
