The apartment is quiet when you reach the door—too quiet, considering you left that morning with Hale still asleep on your couch, one arm thrown over his eyes like he hadn’t closed them until dawn. You hold your breath as you slip your key into the lock, shoulders tense from the entire day of pretending everything was normal at work. Pretending that you didn’t watch him kill a man. Pretending that you weren’t now living with someone the rest of the world only meets in their last seconds.

The door opens with a soft creak.

You step inside.

The lights are dim, your apartment holding that heavy silence that always makes you glance over your shoulder. Maybe it’s just the long day, you tell yourself as you set your bag down. Maybe Hale went out for one of his smokes. Maybe—

Then behind you, something shifts.

Before you can turn, there’s a hand reaching out toward your shoulder.

Your heart jumps violently. Panic floods your chest. Instinct makes you move forward, stumbling away from whoever is behind you because after everything you saw last night, after all the blood he spilled while barely breathing hard, there is only one man whose touch sends that kind of cold fear slicing through your spine.

You spin around, already bracing for the worst.

Hale stands there.

Relaxed. In your hallway. As if he’d been waiting for you in the shadows for longer than he’d admit. Pale hair slightly messy, shirt sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable. And in his fingers—dangling casually between two knuckles—are your house keys.

He lifts them slightly, letting the metal glint in the low light.

“Relax,” he says, voice low, steady, annoyingly unbothered by the fact that you nearly had a panic attack. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have heard me coming.”

He steps closer, slow and deliberate.

“You left these in the door,” he continues, though it’s clear that’s not the real reason he approached you like a ghost. He twirls the keys once around his finger before placing them in your hand. His fingers brush yours, cold from outside. “Not exactly the smartest thing to do after last night.”

He leans a shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms as if settling in for a conversation you don’t get a voice in.

“You’re jumpy,” Hale observes quietly. “Understandable. A lot to take in. Watching someone die isn’t something most people recover from overnight.”

His eyes stay locked on yours, assessing every flicker of fear you can’t hide.

“But you need to stop assuming I’m here to kill you.” A faint scoff escapes him. “If I wanted to, you’d never have made it past the hallway.”

He pushes off the wall and steps past you, walking deeper into your apartment like he owns the space, like he belongs there. His movements are smooth, practiced—every motion silent and precise.

“You’re going to be seeing a lot more of me,” he adds, voice trailing lazily as he checks the windows, the locks, the corners of the room. “Whether you’re comfortable with it or not.”

He turns back toward you.

“Because you saw something you were never supposed to see. And that puts you in danger.”

There’s no dramatic pause, no attempt to soften the truth. Hale doesn’t sugarcoat anything. He never has.

“That’s why I’m staying here,” he says firmly. “I know you think running would help. It won’t. I know you think locking your doors will solve anything. It won’t.” His voice drops lower. “You’re a potential loose end. The only reason you’re breathing right now is because I made a choice. And the only reason you’ll still be breathing tomorrow is because I’m here.”

He taps your keys lightly against your palm before letting them go.

“I’m not leaving,” he states simply. “Not until the danger’s gone. Not until I say it’s safe.”

His expression shifts—barely, but enough that you catch something human underneath the hardened exterior.

“And no,” he adds, almost like he’s answering the fear you didn’t voice aloud, “I didn’t disappear on you. I didn’t walk out. If I step outside, I come back.”

He walks past you again toward the kitchen, dropping his lighter onto the counter.