He hesitates near the door, then steps forward and pulls me into a firm embrace. I rest my forehead briefly against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of soap and cold air.
“Lock up,” he instructs softly. “All of it.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
After he leaves, the apartment goes quiet in a way that feels noticeable rather than calm. I lock the door, set the chain, and pause there for a moment. I move through the rooms methodically, rechecking locks even though I watched Ethan secure them. The chain is tight. The windows are latched. Thebalcony door resists when I test it. Everything appears intact. But that doesn’t guarantee safety.
I switch on lamps instead of the overhead lights, creating pools of soft illumination that leave fewer blind spots. My shoes come off by the door out of habit, but I don’t line them up. The deviation stands out, a small fracture in my routine that reflects the larger one under my skin.
I wash my hands, scrubbing until sensation overtakes thought, the water hot enough to sting. I dry my hands and leave the towel crumpled instead of folding it. Another deviation.
I change into a soft cotton shirt and sit on the edge of my bed without turning on the television or music. I want to hear everything. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant murmur of traffic, a door closing somewhere down the hall. Normal sounds that should calm me, but don’t.
The note remains in my pocket like a pulse I can’t ignore. I take it out again, smoothing the fold with my thumb as I read it once more. No signature. No explicit threat. Just the suggestion that someone is watching me. Knows my routines well enough to enter my workspace and leave without notice.
My mind runs through possibilities. A patient. A colleague. Someone connected to Alexei Morozov. Someone connected to Kiren Sovarin.
That last thought sends a shiver up my spine. I consider what I’ve already told Ethan and what I’ve withheld. I didn’t mention Kiren by name. I didn’t mention the alley, or the way hispresence has threaded itself through my thoughts with unsettling persistence. Not because I trust Kiren. Because he represents a variable I don’t yet understand.
The memory of Alexei surfaces again, his grip on my wrist, and the urgency in his eyes.Betrayal inside.Names without context. Warnings delivered to a stranger because there was no one else left.
I stay where I am, my spine straight, and my feet planted on the floor. I won’t let fear take hold. Instead, I make an assessment. If someone is watching me, then patterns matter. If someone left that note, then timing matters. If Alexei’s words connect to this at all, then I’m already involved whether I want to be or not. Avoidance won’t protect me, but information might.
I pick up my phone and open my messages, scrolling through threads without seeing them. My thumb pauses when I reach Kiren’s name, the contact information sparse, saved without embellishment. No photo. No notes. Just a name and a number.
I don’t think of the next step as reaching out for help. That would imply reliance I’m not prepared for. Instead, I think of it as clarification.
I draw a slow breath, allowing my hands to still before I initiate the call. The line rings once. Twice. He answers before the third.
“Rowan,” his voice comes through low and curious, the faint trace of an accent giving it definition. “Either you miss me already, or you’re calling to request a second dinner.”
“Neither,” I reply, keeping my tone level. “I need to meet with you.”
A pause follows, short but attentive. “Tonight?”
“No,” I correct. “Soon. In person. To talk.”
Another pause, longer this time. I hear him consider it.
“This doesn’t sound social,” he observes.
“It isn’t.”
“And you aren’t telling me why,” he observes.
“Not over the phone.”
The silence lingers, deliberate rather than uncomfortable.
“Somewhere public?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll make myself available,” he replies. “When and where?”
“I’ll let you know.”
The line goes quiet for a heartbeat before he speaks again. “Rowan.”
