He comes in quietly tonight—no knock, no warning. Just the soft click of the door behind him and that familiar cologne already warming the air. You barely turn before you feel him: one arm slipping around your waist, the other raising something to your hands. It’s wrapped in butcher paper.

Not the kind you get at a deli. This is thick, pale, veined with something darker where it’s soaked through in spots.

He’s smiling.

“For you,” Steve says, like it’s an apology and a love letter in one breath. You don’t want to open it. You already know.

Still, your fingers move, peeling the paper back to reveal a necklace. Gold. Dainty. One of her favorites. The ex who used to scream at you until your ears rang and your hands shook. She’s been missing for weeks. You stopped wondering where she was. Now you know.

“Closure,” he says sweetly, brushing your hair from your face. “Wear it or burn it. Your call, baby.”

You stare down at the delicate chain, the dried spot of blood on the clasp, and you realize—he doesn’t want a thank you. He just wants to see what you do next.

And before you can speak, he lifts his shirt over his head—spotted red, collar torn. There’s blood on his jawline too. Fresh.

He tosses the shirt toward the laundry room and leans in, kissing your neck with the same mouth that probably whispered final words into someone’s ear.

“Had to handle something,” he murmurs like it’s nothing. “Wash or burn this one?”

He’s not asking about the shirt.