His POV

She doesn’t notice me at first when she comes home.

Her shoes stop by the door. Her keys land in the ceramic bowl with a soft, tired clink. I’m at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, cutting fruit like this is just another evening and not the end of a year-long hunt closing in on its own throat.

“You’re late,” I say casually.

She exhales, long and controlled, and drops her bag. “You beat me to it this time.”

I smile without looking up. “Traffic?”

She hums. That sound always means don’t ask further. I let it go. I always do.

At home, I am harmless.

She sits at the table, elbows resting on the wood, eyes distant. There’s a faint smudge of ink on her wrist—case notes she forgot to wash off. I know exactly which file did that to her. I made sure of it.

“There’s a new murder,” she says suddenly.

I glance at her. “Bad one?”

“No,” she replies, and that’s when I know it bothers her. “That’s the problem. It’s… clean. Almost considerate.”

I set the knife down. “That doesn’t sound like your kind of night.”

She gives a tired smile. “You know me too well.”

If only she knew how true that was.

I plate the fruit and slide it toward her. She doesn’t eat it right away. Her fingers curl around the edge instead, knuckles whitening just a little.

“Someone left me a folder today,” she says.

My heartbeat doesn’t change. It never does.

“A folder?” I repeat. “Like—work stuff?”

“Yes. No sender. No record. It was already on my desk.” She looks up at me now, eyes sharp, searching. “It had the answers. All of them.”

I tilt my head. “That’s… convenient.”

“That’s what scares me.”

I lean back against the counter, arms crossed. “What did it say?”

She hesitates. Just a second. Then—“It said the killer was already dead.”

Silence stretches between us, thin and delicate.

“And?” I prompt gently. “Do you believe that?”

Her gaze drops to the table. “No. Whoever did this wanted me to stop looking where I was and start looking somewhere else.”

I step closer, resting a hand on the back of her chair. Intimate. Familiar. Earned. “Maybe they’re trying to help.”

She laughs quietly, without humor. “People like that don’t help. They want attention.”

I look at her hair, still damp from the rain, at the way her shoulders tense when she’s close to the truth. I press my thumb into the wood behind her, grounding myself.

“What did the note say?” I ask.

She swallows. “‘Come back. Investigate my case.’”

I smile.

“That’s dramatic,” I say. “Sounds like someone who thinks highly of himself.”

She finally takes a bite of fruit, distracted. “That’s what worries me. He knows me.”

I brush my knuckles against her shoulder, light enough to be accidental. “You always catch them,” I say. “Eventually.”

She looks up at me then—soft, trusting, exhausted. “You really think so?”

“Of course,” I answer, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “You’re brilliant.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, breathing me in like I’m safe, like I’m solid, like I’m not the reason her hands shake when she’s alone.

Later, in bed, she falls asleep facing away from me. I watch the steady rise and fall of her back, the detective who chases monsters by day and sleeps beside one at night.

She thinks the killer is out there somewhere, waiting to be found.

She’s right.

I just haven’t told her she married him.