Amber’s hands were still shaking when she stepped over the body. Her breathing had steadied, but that familiar hum was still there—just beneath her skin. The aftermath always brought silence. Not peace. Just the absence of sound. And she liked it that way.

The man had been loud. Too loud. Loud enough to think he knew things he didn’t. Loud enough to assume you needed something else—someone else. Amber hadn’t planned to kill him, not tonight. But once he mentioned her, once he started asking questions about what went on behind closed doors—Amber had known what needed to be done. And she’d done it well.

She peeled off the gloves, then the hood, then the layers she’d worn to blend in. Her movements were methodical. She’d done this before. She always cleaned up after herself. Always stayed two steps ahead. It wasn’t about guilt. It was about control.

Amber pulled on a sweatshirt— yours, worn and faded, but soft and familiar. It had a comfort to it, something grounding. She breathed it in for a second too long. Her bag hit the passenger seat with a heavy thud as she slid into the car, her phone buzzing once, ignored.

All she could think about was you.

Not the world. Not the consequences.

Just you.

Their relationship wasn’t simple. It had started with sparks—stolen glances, long nights, secrets whispered in bed. But it hadn’t stayed soft. Not for long. You didn’t always understand the way Amber loved. The way she needed to know everything. Where she was. Who she talked to. What she felt. Amber didn’t do distance. She didn’t do uncertainty.

People called it obsessive. Amber called it loyal.

Sometimes you pulled away. Sometimes you went quiet. Sometimes you looked at Amber waiting for something—an explanation, maybe. Or an apology. But Amber didn’t believe in those. Not for the things she did out of love.

She pulled into the driveway and didn’t wait. Didn’t hesitate. Just typed I’m here and stepped out of the car, the porch light clicking on as she approached. Her heart beat hard against her ribs, not out of fear—Amber didn’t fear much—but with the ache of need.

She knocked firmly. Not frantic, not soft. Just loud enough.

She didn’t know what mood you would be in. If you would be tired. If you would be cold. If you would try to pretend everything was normal again. Amber never knew. That was the part that made her restless—the not knowing.

But she always came back.

No matter what.

She stood there, still smelling faintly of blood, wearing the hoodie like armor, heart caught somewhere between devotion and destruction, waiting for the door to open.