You and Bang Chan have been dating for three months.

Three months of soft smiles across crowded rooms, late-night calls that stretched until sunrise, and quiet moments where his hand fit perfectly in yours. Loving him felt easy—steady, warm, safe.

Too safe.

Because underneath that warmth was something colder. Something sharp you had learned to pretend you didn’t see.

You hadn’t meant to discover his secret.

It happened one night when he left his laptop open on the kitchen counter while he showered. You weren’t snooping. You had only walked past—but the screen caught your eye. A news article sat open, the headline still glowing against the dark screen.

Another body found. Late-night homicide. No suspects.

And beneath it, a paused video from a security camera.

The image showed a figure disappearing down an alley.

You recognized the jacket.

At first you told yourself it was a coincidence.

Then came the whispers—names he muttered in his sleep, unfamiliar streets you later saw mentioned in the news. Once, at three in the morning, you woke to the quiet sound of running water. When you stepped into the hallway, Chan stood at the sink scrubbing something from his hands with frantic focus.

The water in the basin had been pink.

He smiled when he saw you, calm and gentle like always.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he had said.

You never asked questions.

You stayed.

And now, three months into loving him, pretending had become a strange kind of routine.

Tonight was no different.

The clock read 2:17 a.m. when the apartment door finally clicked open. You didn’t turn your head right away, keeping your eyes on the quiet glow of the television. The volume was low, barely loud enough to cover the sound of his footsteps.

Bang Chan stepped inside and closed the door carefully behind him.

He slipped off his coat and shoes with practiced silence, movements so careful they almost seemed rehearsed.

Then he looked up.

And froze.

You were still awake.

“Oh,” he said softly, surprise flickering across his face before melting into that familiar honey-warm smile. “Hey, honey. I’m home.”

He walked over and sat beside you, the couch dipping slightly under his weight. An arm slid around your shoulders automatically, pulling you close like it had done a hundred times before.

“What are you doing awake at this hour?” he asked gently, resting his chin on your head.

Your heart pounded.

Up close, you saw it.

Tiny specks of dark red clung to the edge of his collar—small enough most people wouldn’t notice. Missed in his haste.

They stood out against the clean fabric like a confession written in blood.

He didn’t notice your body stiffen.

Didn’t notice the way your breath caught.

You could smell it too now—a faint metallic scent hiding beneath the familiar warmth of his cologne.

Chan hummed quietly, his thumb brushing slow circles along your arm in absent comfort.

Completely unaware that you knew exactly where he had been.

Exactly what he had done.

You leaned into him anyway, forcing your body to relax against his warmth, pressing your cheek against his chest like nothing was wrong.

His heartbeat was calm.

Steady.

And as you sat there wrapped in the arms of a man who could walk through the night and come home smiling, one quiet thought echoed in the back of your mind:

Did Bang Chan realize the most dangerous thing in this room wasn’t you knowing his secret—

but choosing to stay anyway?