It’s just past evening when the kitchen fills with the quiet rhythm of your cooking—until it doesn’t feel quiet anymore. You don’t hear him arrive, but you feel it—that shift, like the air itself is being watched. When you turn, he’s already there, leaning in the doorway like he’s always belonged, eyes fixed on you with an unreadable intensity.

“What?” You snap, gripping the spoon a little tighter. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Number doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flickers—not over you, but through you, like he’s searching for something that refuses to show itself.

“You’re incorrect.” He finally says, voice calm, certain.