The clock above the sink reads 6:47. I should shower, but the thought of peeling off the rest of my clothes in the cold bathroom feels impossible. I light a candle instead. Vanilla, almost sweet enough to cover the antiseptic smell that follows me home from work.
Something knocks faintly against the window. Probably the wind, but it makes me look up. The curtains shift a little. I cross the room and check the latch. Closed. Everything looks normal.
Still, a small chill runs down my spine. I know it’s exhaustion and I’ve seen way too many people turn paranoid after continuous ER nights. But still… something feels off.
The candle sputters.
I exhale through my nose, force myself to move and I see that the bedroom door is cracked open. The blinds let in a faint strip of light from the street—thin and gold, cutting through the dark like a scar. My bed’s already made, the sheet smooth, the sweatshirt folded neatly at the foot.
Lucas used to sleep there sometimes, when he’d show up too drunk to find his own bed. I never said no, even when he stumbled in at 3 a.m. smelling like whiskey and trouble. Some part of me always thought if I kept a place for him, he’d find his way back to it.
The city outside murmurs—a siren far away, laughter closer, a dog barking in the alley. It’s ordinary. Comforting, even.
I pull my hair free from its ponytail and let it fall over my shoulders and I stand, half-undressed, and glance toward the hallway. For a moment, I think I hear something like a quiet shift of fabric, a slow breath that isn’t mine. The sound is so faint I almost convince myself I imagined it.
I move toward the doorway, every sense on edge. “Lucas?” I call softly.
Silence.
My heartbeat drowns out the rest of the world. I take another step.
Something about the darkness feels different now, watchful. Like the second before a lightning strike. My mind flips through every rational explanation. The neighbors. The pipes. The wind. But none of them explain the smell.
It’s faint—cologne, maybe. Expensive. Nothing like Lucas’s cheap spray or the sterilized scent of the hospital. This is darker and way more subtle.
I pause halfway between the bedroom and the living room. The candlelight spills just enough to show the edge of the armchair by the window. The shadow there looks deeper than it should.
My pulse stumbles. I tell myself to move, to grab my phone, to dosomething, but my body won’t listen. Another sound—a soft exhale, almost a sigh.
There’s someone here. There’s someone in myfuckingliving room!
Every muscle in my body locks. I can’t see him yet, but I can feel him and I am damn sure it’s a man. A chill crawls up the back of my neck.
No movement. No sound. Just my own heartbeat hammering in my ears. I stand there for what feels like a full minute, my breath coming short and fast. The candle still flickers, steady and harmless. Maybe it was the neighbors. Or the old building settling again. Maybe the sound was mine—a creak of floorboard, a breath caught wrong.
Get a grip, Kira. You’ve been awake too long.
I’ve seen what sleep deprivation does to people—hallucinations, paranoia, the mind twisting shadows into faces. I’ve told patients the same thing a hundred times. So why does the apartment feel like it’s holding its breath?
I run a hand through my hair, force out a laugh that doesn’t sound real. “Jesus, maybe I need the blackout after all.”
The joke lands flat in the dark.
I sit on the couch, letting my body remember the fatigue instead of the fear and I unlock my bra, getting ready to go under the shower and wash this day away.
“I’d let you keep going,” a voice says smoothly, “but things might escalate in a direction I didn’t plan for.”
My body freezes before my brain catches up. The voice isn’t my brother’s.
CHAPTER THREE
Kira
For a second, I freeze, pulse roaring in my ears. There’s someone in here, watching me.
Instinct takes over. I spin, slam my hand against the wall behind me, and flick the light switch. The room flares to life in harsh yellow, too bright after the dark. And he’s there. Leaning casually against the arm of my couch like he’s been waiting.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black that fits him too well to be random. His jacket hangs open, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the kind of body that belongs in a very different kind of room. His hair is dark, messy in a way that looks deliberate, and his eyes—God, those eyes—are the kind of cold gray that burns.
