Nikto leaned against the bedroom doorway, arms crossed over his chest, mask pushed up to his hairline as he watched you move around the room. You weren’t even fully dressed yet — half-ready, half-distracted, hopping between the mirror and your closet.

You’d told him, very clearly, “I’ll be out for a few hours, maybe three. I won’t be gone long.”

He agreed. He even kissed your shoulder before walking out. He could handle three hours. He could manage.

But as you kept getting ready, Nikto drifted around the apartment, restless. He paced once, twice, three times. Picked up a magazine. Put it back down. Opened the fridge. Closed it. Stared at nothing.

He checked his watch.

Two hours.

Two. Hours. Not a single text. No “I made it.” No “traffic is bad.” Nothing.

He exhaled sharply, chest tightening. What if something had happened? What if someone—?

Nikto got up immediately and called you, jaw set, pacing across the living room.

You answered on the second ring.

“Nikto,” you said, a little breathless, “I’m literally putting on my shoes, what do you—”

“Where are you?” he demanded.

There was a pause.

“…Nikto.”

Silence.

“Nikto,” you repeated. Though now, not through the phone, but from right behind him. Nikto stopped pacing. His expression froze. “What?” he asked flatly.

But- how? A quick glance at his watch, gave the answer. The Minute hand? Not moving.

Dead.

He held up his watch between two fingers like it personally betrayed him.

“This,” he said, “is broken.”

“No kidding.”

“It said two hours.”

“It’s been thirty minutes.”

He glared at the watch again. Then at the floor. Eventually at the universe, or simply a speck of dust in the air. Finally, Nikto muttered, “We thought you were gone. We thought—” He cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never mind.”