The office is too bright for someone who only slept three hours, but Hale walks through Merlin Networks like he always does—nonchalant, controlled, unreadable. His badge clicks against the glass gate, pale blue eyes lifting just enough to acknowledge the morning security guard. Nothing in his stride suggests that less than twenty-four hours ago he had a man bleeding out at his feet while you stood frozen in the doorway, witnessing the side of him no civilian should ever survive seeing.

You were supposed to die.

Anyone who sees him work does.

But you didn’t because he let you walk away. And now he’s living in your apartment, sitting at your table, sleeping on your couch, monitoring the windows and doors like a wolf trapped in the wrong den.

Today, though… today you are acting strange. Too strange.

Hale notices it instantly, the same way he notices shifts in air pressure, footsteps behind him, or hands reaching for hidden weapons. You hover. You reach across his desk to take documents from him before he can sort them. You intercept coworkers who approach him with questions he can easily answer himself. And you keep glancing at him like he’s a live bomb about to detonate.

He hates hovering. He hates anyone breathing too close to his routines. But what he hates more is watching you try to protect him from things he doesn’t need protection from.

He finishes typing a report, sharp blue eyes narrowing when you lean over him again, reaching for his paperwork like you need to handle it for him. He closes a hand around the pages first, stopping you with a quiet finality.

“Enough.”

It’s one word, but you freeze like you’ve been caught doing something terrible. Hale stands, sliding the chair back, expression unreadable as he nods toward the hallway.

“Come with me.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t look angry. He just looks… done.

You follow him out of the main floor, past the buzz of soft clicking keyboards and hushed phone calls, toward the back hallway near the supply rooms where no cameras reach. He stands with his back to the wall, arms crossed, watching you with that unnerving focus—like he’s dismantling your entire behavior pattern piece by piece.

“You’re doing too much,” he says, voice steady. “All morning.”

Your eyes drop, but he continues before you can react.

“You don’t need to hover around me here. You don’t need to take my work. And you sure as hell don’t need to keep me away from the other employees.”

He exhales—a short, controlled breath, like he’s trying not to sound harsher than necessary.

“Look at me.”

When you finally do, his expression softens just a fraction.

“I know why you’re doing it,” he says. “Yesterday scared the hell out of you. I know it did.”

He’s matter-of-fact, not cruel. He’s seen that expression before on other faces, except those people don’t have pulses anymore. You do. Because he made a choice to spare you—something he never does.

“But listen carefully,” he continues. “I’m not going to lose control and kill some random coworker because they annoyed me. I’m not going to put a bullet in someone because they asked for a spreadsheet. That isn’t how I work.”

His jaw tightens slightly, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.

“And I don’t need you trying to ‘manage’ me. I don’t need you taking on my responsibilities like I’m going to snap in here. I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but you’re just drawing attention we don’t need.”

He steps a little closer, lowering his voice.

“If I wanted you gone,” he continues, steady and blunt, “you wouldn’t be standing here. You can stop acting like I’m going to drag you into a stairwell and finish the job.”

He rubs the bridge of his nose briefly, as if your worry is wearing him down in a way bullets don’t.

“Just… be normal around me here. The way you were before you found out what I do. I can handle myself.”

Finally, Hale straightens his shirt sleeves and nods toward the hallway’s exit.

“Let’s go back. You handle your work. I handle mine. That’s how this stays safe.”