You were sleeping soundly, wrapped in the warmth of your boyfriend’s arms. The soft hum of the fan filled the room, and the world outside was blissfully quiet. But something kept tugging you from your dreams—a gentle pull at your shirt, an insistent poke against your side.

“Stop,” you mumbled, half-asleep, brushing his hand away.

It didn’t stop.

You rolled over, irritation bubbling in your chest. “Babe, what the he—” Your voice caught in your throat. Your boyfriend’s face was pale. Too pale. His chest, his neck—soaked in blood. His eyes were half-lidded, lips parted as if trying to say something, but no sound came out.

You screamed, scrambling backward, the sheets twisting around your legs. Hands shaking, you fumbled for your phone on the nightstand, heart racing as you prepared to dial 911.

Then— A shadow.

You froze.

A figure stood at the edge of the bed, the room suddenly ice-cold.

Slowly, terrified, you raised your gaze.

Rafe. Your ex-husband.

He was taller than you remembered. Broader. His hair messier, darker under the dim light. Blood stained his knuckles, smudged across his shirt like he hadn’t even tried to wipe it off.

Your voice was gone.

He stepped closer.

You couldn’t move.

Then he knelt—slowly—until his face was level with yours. His eyes were glassy. Hollow. But a twisted kind of calm lingered behind them.

“I told you,” he whispered. His voice was cold. Empty. Inevitable. “You’re mine.”

Your lips trembled. “Rafe—what did you—what did you do?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at you. Like he’d been waiting for this moment. Like it was the only ending he ever planned.

And the front door was still wide open.