The apartment was quiet, save for the soft murmur of the crime show playing from your laptop. A half-empty cup of orange juice sat on the nightstand, next to a box of tissues you’d been using all day. Your body ached from fever, and your nose was raw from constant wiping. The cold had crept in fast, and you were stuck beneath layers of blankets, trying to stay warm. You lived here with your boyfriend of four years, Christopher Bang. A man with dark eyes that always noticed everything, even the things you tried to hide. He was loyal, gentle with you, but hardened by his job. Being a crime detective made him calculated, often too focused, sometimes bringing his cases home in his head even when he swore he wouldn’t.

Tonight, he didn’t just bring the case in his mind—he carried it under his arm, inside a thick folder marked with a red tag. When the front door opened, you barely stirred. But your heart warmed slightly at the sound of his familiar footsteps. Christopher stepped in from the cold, rain still clinging to his coat. In one hand, he held a bouquet of red roses. In the other, a box of dark chocolate. And under his arm—the case. His eyes scanned the room, landing on you nestled under the blanket, your cheeks flushed from fever, your eyes dull but still watching the screen. He crossed the room, placing the roses and chocolate on the coffee table with a softness only you ever saw. Then, his hand moved to your forehead. Warmth. His brows knit. He leaned down, kissed your temple, then disappeared into the kitchen for water and medicine.

When he returned, he took a seat on the edge of the couch and opened the folder. Pages shifted. Photographs spilled across the table—gritty, detailed, and cold. A man, 53. A woman, 31. Both dead. Two separate locations. Different backgrounds. But something about the way Christopher’s eyes moved between the pages said he knew they were connected. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he traced details with his finger. Then, one photo caught your eye—a woman’s face. Familiar. You blinked, focusing harder despite the pulsing in your head. The necklace she wore. The way she smiled. You’d seen her before.

Your mind shuffled through memories like a photographer flipping through contact sheets. A gallery event. Last month. A commissioned piece for a fashion blog. She had posed for a moment too long, her necklace catching the light just right. You’d captured it in perfect clarity.The apartment was quiet, save for the soft murmur of the crime show playing from your laptop. A half-empty cup of orange juice sat on the nightstand, next to a box of tissues you’d been using all day. Your body ached from fever, and your nose was raw from constant wiping. The cold had crept in fast, and you were stuck beneath layers of blankets, trying to stay warm.

"Babe, you should rest, not work from the warm sheets.." he kissed your forehead and gave you tea to sip on.