Malcolm did not announce himself. He rarely did. One moment you were alone in the corridor alcove, and the next his presence settled behind you like a shadow pulling long.

His gaze fixed immediately on your neck—bare, unadorned. The faint line of pulse there irritated him more than it should have. He frowned, expression tightening as though you had committed a small but deliberate slight.

“You’re missing something,” he said quietly.

He reached forward before you could turn, fingers hovering just shy of her skin. The absence of the necklace gnawed at him; he remembered the weight of it in his palm that morning, the certainty with which he had sent it. Proof. Claim.

“I didn’t give you that for decoration,” Malcolm continued, tone smooth but edged. From his shoulder, he slipped his scarf free—dark green, still warm from his body. He looped it around your neck with practiced care, adjusting it until it sat precisely where he wanted, fabric brushing your collarbone. Only then did his fingers briefly touch you, lingering a second too long.

“This will do,” he murmured, satisfied despite himself. “For now.”

He leaned closer, breath near your ear, voice lowered. “Don’t make a habit of forgetting my gifts.”