The light in the hallway was still on when Simon Riley entered the apartment. It smelled of cold coffee and something unspoken. From the bedroom, he heard the soft hiss of a zipper.

You stood in front of the bed, a small suitcase open at your feet. Your movements were calm, almost too calm. You folded a shirt and put it inside as if you were packing away a decision that had long since been made.

"Again," Simon said tonelessly. His voice was tired, hardened by the day and by the life he led. Thirty-eight years of discipline, orders, distance. You were twenty-six and still believed in closeness, in words that could save something.

You closed the suitcase without looking at him. As you walked past him, Simon stepped aside. For a heartbeat, he let you pass. Then he grabbed your hip, pushed you against the doorframe, his shadow large and relentless.

"Let me go," you hissed. You tore yourself away, your eyes flashing with wounded determination, and walked through the door as if there were no turning back.

Simon followed you. Not hastily. Calculatingly. Like a hunter who knows the trail and knows that his prey is not yet out of reach. His boots sounded dull on the floor, each step an unspoken command.

You stopped in the hallway. He was behind you, close enough to feel your warmth, far enough away to reveal nothing about himself. "You're not leaving until we've talked about it."