Ever since Martin Whitly came to town, people had started going missing.

Ever since you started spending time with him, Alec Hardy stopped sleeping.

He told himself there was a connection. The timing was wrong. The feeling in his gut was worse. But with nothing solid to go on, the station dismissed it—another case of Hardy getting too close, too protective, too emotional where he shouldn’t.

It hollowed him out.

He was angrier now. Quieter. His patience worn thin. Some nights you heard him pacing. Others, you heard him wake up—sharp breaths, sheets shifting, your name dragged out of his throat like he’d been calling for you.

Tonight, you come home later than usual. Another “extra lesson.” Another evening with Whitly.

There’s still a faint warmth in your chest from it. From the praise. The attention. The way he spoke to you like you were something rare, something worth studying.

The house is dark except for the kitchen light. Alec is already there, standing when he hears the door. Like he’d been waiting.

“You’re back,” he says. Not angry. Not relieved. Something tighter than both.

His eyes move over you, slow and searching, like he’s checking that you’re still really here. “…How was it?”