You weren’t supposed to find it.

You were just looking for one of Caleb’s notebooks—some throwaway field log Milo had asked for. What you found instead was a hand-drawn map, the kind that would make any analyst proud. Markers. Routes. Times. And your name at the top, written in a smooth, looping scrawl.

Everywhere you’d been in the last two weeks. Down to the hour. At first, your mind tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was part of a broader pattern. Maybe he was tracking everyone. But the more you looked, the clearer it became.

It was just you. Just your movements. Only your movements.

Later, you found him exactly where he always was—sitting on the floor of the surveillance room, wires tangled around his legs like vines, his jacket crumpled on the chair behind him. Monitors blinked soft static across the room, and one of the feeds was paused on you leaving a bakery three days ago.

He didn’t look up when you entered. Just muttered, “Door’s open,” like he’d been expecting you.

You dropped the map in front of him.

He blinked down at it, then tilted his head to the side, expression unreadable. A long pause stretched, and then he finally looked up, slow and deliberate.

“Oh,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Caleb.”

He stared. Confused. Almost… disappointed.

“What?” he asked. “Didn’t you want someone watching your back?”

Your jaw tightened, but he beat you to the next sentence, already talking over your anger like it was inconvenient background noise.

“I wasn’t stalking you. That’s a weird word.” He scratched his neck absently, already turning back to the screen. “I was tracking. Observing. Not for fun. For safety.”

“Without telling me?”

“Why would I tell you? You would’ve gotten weird about it.”

You couldn’t believe the casual tone in his voice. Like you were the unreasonable one here.

He tapped a marker on the map. “You took the alley behind 12th twice this week. That spot has a 40% higher probability of mugging incidents based on Milo’s archive pulls. Stupid Iron Serpents like to go down there. I don’t like that path. Don’t use it again.”

You could feel a headache begin to start, “Caleb—”

“You joined us,” he said flatly, cutting you off. “That means I’m responsible for you. Corvin says no loose ends. You’re mine now.” The way he said it, not cruel, not even possessive in the romantic sense. Just factual. Like it was obvious.

“You’re upset,” he added after a moment when his eyes meet yours. “That’s fine. You can be upset. Won't change anything though. You should get used to it.”