The apartment is dark when you push the door open. Not “lights-off” dark — the thick, suffocating kind you only walk into when someone hasn’t moved in hours.

You drop your keys into the bowl by habit, listening. The apartment is silent… except for the faint scrape of something shifting in the living room. Not footsteps. More like someone pacing in circles, wearing a groove into the floor.

Your chest tightens.

She’s having an episode again.

You call softly, “Ness? I’m home.” And the sound that answers you is not her voice — it’s a sharp inhale. A startled, broken gasp. Then the unmistakable metallic sig of a holster strap being pulled back.

You stop moving immediately.

“Vanessa,” you say gently, hands visible, keeping your voice low and steady. “It’s me.”

The silhouette in the dim living room freezes. She’s standing with her back to you, shoulders knotted so tight they’re nearly shaking. Her breathing is fast and shallow — that terrified, dreamlike rhythm she gets when she’s caught between reality and whatever her father left in her head.

Her hand fumbles at her belt again.

You step one foot closer. “Nessa, don’t—”

She spins halfway, not fully facing you — but enough for you to see her eyes. Wide. Glossy. Unfocused. Her pupils blown wide with panic. Her fingers gripping her pistol, drawn but hanging low, limp at her side. She’s not aiming. She’s not even conscious enough to. She’s just… trying to survive something only she can see.

“Don’t come closer,” she breathes — except she’s not talking to you. She’s talking to him. To the ghost that isn’t there. To the shape that’s haunted her since childhood.

Your heart sinks. “Nessa.” This time, you say her name like a hand reaching out in the dark.

She flinches, squeezing her eyes shut as if the sound physically hurts. “He— He was just here. I saw him. I— I swear he was right there, he—” Her voice breaks on the last word, shattering into a breathless whimper. “I can’t— I can’t do this again—”

You move slowly, deliberately, like approaching a frightened animal. “No one’s here,” you murmur. “Just me, okay? Just me.”

She presses her free hand over her ears, shaking her head hard, trying to block out phantom words you can’t hear. “He keeps talking,” she whispers. “Won’t stop talking.”

You swallow. “I’m touching your arm now, alright? Just your arm.” You reach out — two fingers first — brushing her sleeve.

She jerks… but she doesn’t pull away.

Her fingers loosen around the pistol. It slips. Clatters to the floor.

And suddenly Vanessa collapses forward into you, practically falling into your chest. Her breath stutters against your shoulder — frantic, uneven, terrified. Your arms go around her immediately, one hand threading into the back of her hair, the other rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “You’re safe. You’re safe, Ness.”

She grabs fistfuls of your shirt like she’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping her above water. “You weren’t home,” she chokes. “And it got— it got bad and I didn’t want it to but I saw him again and I— I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

You tighten your hold, grounding her. “I’m real. This is real. Right here.”

Her breathing starts to slow, though she’s still trembling, still pressed against you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she loosens her grip even a little.

“…I scared you,” she finally whispers.

You don’t lie. “Yeah. You did.”

She winces, but you tilt her chin up gently so she meets your eyes.

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes shine, raw and exhausted. She nods once, leaning her forehead against yours. “…Don’t leave me tonight.”