He's dangerous, yes.
But he's also good.
And worthy.
And standing here looking at me like my answer actually matters to him.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "I'd like that."
"Follow me," he says.
We walk back to the gym. He unlocks a side door I hadn't noticed before, one that leads to a narrow staircase heading up. The stairs are old, the wood creaking slightly under our weight, and at the top is another door that he unlocks and pushes open.
"After you," he says.
I step inside.
The apartment is exactly what I would have expected if I'd thought about it. Small, just a studio layout with everything visible from the doorway. A bed in one corner, neatly made. A small kitchen area with minimal appliances. A bathroom doorthat's slightly ajar. No decorations on the walls. No personal touches. Nothing that suggests anyone actually lives here versus just exists here.
But it's clean. Meticulously clean. And there's something about the spartanness of it that makes sense for him. Like he's kept everything in his life stripped down to only what's absolutely necessary.
He closes the door behind us and locks it.
The sound of the lock engaging makes my pulse jump.
"You want something to drink?" he asks. "Water? I've got beer somewhere if you want it."
"Water's fine."
He moves to the kitchen, pulls two glasses from the cabinet, fills them from the tap.
He hands me the water.
"Thank you," I say.
"Sit wherever you want."
There's a small couch against one wall. I sit down, and he sits next to me. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. He's still slightly sweaty from the fight, his hair damp, his shirt sticking to his chest in places.
I take a sip of water I don't really want because I need something to do with my hands.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yes. I think so. It's just—" I stop, trying to find the words. "I didn't know. About the tracker. For three months I didn't know."
"It's not your fault."
"I should have figured it out."
"How?" His voice is gentle now, patient. "You're not trained to look for that kind of thing. Most people aren't."
"Still."
"Chloe." He waits until I look at him. "This is on him. Not you. He's the one violating your privacy, stalking you, refusing to accept that it's over. None of that is your fault."
I want to believe him. Want to accept that I'm not somehow responsible for Daniel's behavior, for not seeing it sooner, for not handling it better.
"He won't stop," I say. "I know him. Even without the tracker. He'll find another way."
