The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of rain against the window.

Tamsy Caines stood beside the bed, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, staring down at the sleeping figure beneath pale blankets. The room smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen, untouched by anything harsh, everything arranged with careless perfection that somehow made him angrier the longer he looked.

A strand of hair had fallen across the sleeper’s face. He noticed it immediately, the way he noticed everything—how the breathing stayed calm, how one hand rested near the pillow, how even in sleep there was no tension, no fear, no sense that danger had already entered the room.

That was what he hated most.

How someone could exist so peacefully while the world around them stayed sharp and ugly.

His jaw tightened. For weeks he had told himself he only wanted to understand why this person lingered in his thoughts, why every ordinary detail had become impossible to ignore. The walk home at dusk. The quiet smile given to strangers. The way sunlight seemed to follow wherever they stood.

It should have faded.

Instead, it became hunger.

His fingers moved before he thought better of it, brushing the fallen strand gently away from the sleeping face. The touch was brief, careful enough not to wake anyone, though part of him almost wanted to see startled eyes open and finally look directly at him.

But sleep remained unbroken.

Tamsy exhaled through his nose and stepped back.

On the bedside table, he left a single folded note.

You should lock your window.

Then he disappeared into the rain before morning could expose him.