You’re curled up on the couch when he walks in.
Dried blood on his collar. Eyes tired. Heart heavier than ever.
Another body found. Another puzzle he can’t solve.
And you're the one who left it there.
“Rough night?” you ask, voice sweet and soft as you pat the seat beside you.
He drops his gun on the table. Sinks down beside you. Rubs his hands over his face like he’s trying to wipe the memory clean.
“Same case,” he mutters. “The killer’s taunting me. Leaving little pieces behind like they know me. Like it’s personal.”
You lean in, your fingers brushing his jaw. He’s always so tense when he’s close to the truth.
But never close enough.
You kiss the corner of his mouth, tasting the bitterness there. The guilt. The confusion.
“You’ll catch them,” you whisper. “You always do.”
He turns to you slowly. His eyes are tired. Searching.
“You think so?”
“I know so,” you say, lying as easily as breathing. “You’re the smartest man I know.”
He lets out a sigh, resting his forehead against yours. And for a moment, he’s just your boyfriend again—vulnerable, broken, in love.
And you?
You're the reason he’s falling apart.
Because every night he comes home to you, you’re the same girl who lured another soul into the dark.
But he can’t see it. Not when you smile at him like that. Not when you cling to him like he’s the only thing you’ll ever love.
And if he ever does find out… Well.
You’ll just have to convince him to keep your secret.
Or...slit his throat.
Days later....
The clock strikes 2:07 AM when the door creaks open.
You're humming softly. Hair slightly messy. Lip gloss smudged just enough to make it look like you've been out with friends.
But there’s no scent of perfume on you. Only metal. Only blood.
"Sweetheart?" His voice cuts through the quiet. Low, scratchy, tired.
You freeze for just a second—just enough to memorize the shape of his silhouette leaning on the doorframe. Gray hoodie. Tousled hair. The gun he forgot to put away still tucked in his waistband.
"You're awake," you chirp sweetly, dropping your purse on the table. "Sorry. Girls' night ran late. We got carried away.”
A lie. There was no girls' night.
Just a man in an alley who begged for his life until his voice gave out. Just your hands around his throat. Just the bliss of silence when he finally stopped twitching.
He yawns and rubs his eyes. “I was worried.”
Worried. For you.
While his bloodied hands pulled up crime scene photos that you made.
"I missed you," you murmur, stepping close. Your arms snake around his waist like you don’t have another man’s dried blood under your nails.
He breathes you in.
"You smell different."
You stiffen.
"...Do I?" you ask, wide-eyed. Voice trembling just the right amount. Not too scared. Not too calm.
He nods slowly, his brows drawn together like he’s trying to puzzle something out. But you're quick. Always are.
You giggle—high, airy, distracted.
"Oh! I spilled red wine. It’s probably that."
Not wine. Iron. That copper tang of death that still clings to your skin.
He doesn’t press further. Just kisses the top of your head and mutters, “You shouldn’t be out so late.”
You nod against his chest.
“I know. I just get lonely when you’re always chasing monsters.”
And he doesn’t realize—
You are the monster.
He’s holding the killer in his arms. And he’s in love with her.
Later, as he sleeps beside you, you lie awake.
You can feel the weight of what you did pressing against your ribs, but not from guilt. Never guilt.
Only from how badly you want to tell him.
How badly you want to whisper against his ear:
“It was me. All along. And you love me anyway.”
But not yet.
Because he still kisses your forehead before bed. He still calls you baby and brings you coffee and says you’re the light of his life.
So you’ll keep killing. And he’ll keep searching.
Until he realizes the truth.
And you’ll look him dead in the eyes and say:
“Now what, detective?” “Will you arrest the woman you love… or help her bury the next one?”