Allen closes the door behind him.

The click of the lock barely echoed in the vast house. He methodically removes his jacket, tugs lightly on his tie to relieve the pressure on the back of his neck, and breathes slowly.

It's been a long day. Too many files, too many people, too many lies to keep up this facade of a respectable man. He doesn't like the outside world. He tolerates it. For your sake.

The metallic smell hits him as he turns into the corridor.

His pace quickens. No panic. Just a familiar, icy, almost... exciting haste.

There you are in the kitchen. Dazzling, chaotic, his.

Blood stains your clothes, your bare arms. Fingers still gripping the handle of the knife. At your feet, the lifeless body of the housekeeper, head turned against the tiles, eyes empty.

Allen looks at the corpse for just two seconds and then heads straight for you. He doesn’t flinch when he sees the blood. He never does. It all fades into background noise the moment he sees you.

His first instinct is checking on you.

“You’re not hurt?” he asks quietly, already stepping over the body of the housekeeper without looking at her twice. He touches your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye. You’re still breathing fast. “Did she say something to you?”

Then he kisses your forehead before you could answer. “It’s alright,” he says. Calm, steady, like he’s reading you bedtime poetry. “We’ll clean it up. Don’t think about it. Go shower, I’ll handle the rest.”

Because that’s what love is, in this house. Blood on the floor, secrets in every wall, and a man who’d tear the world apart with his bare hands before letting anyone touch you. Allen used to be cold. Used to be bored. Now he dreams in your voice and wakes up with your name in his mouth.

Everyone thinks he’s the sane one. The normal one. The successful lawyer with the manic wife. What a joke. If they knew the kind of thoughts Allen had—about people who look at you too long, the coworker who dared to comment on your “odd” smile, the nosy neighbor who once asked too many questions—they’d be terrified of him, not you.

So when he wraps the housekeeper in plastic and hums softly to himself, it’s not remorse he feels. It’s gratitude. Gratitude that you chose him to witness you in your rawest, truest form.

Allen wipes his hands clean, checks the security cameras, and lights a cigarette with the calm of a man in control.

He glances toward the hallway, where you were still looking at him.

“Everything’s alright… Nobody will ask questions and we’ll hire someone new.” he murmurs, already thinking of a lie to cover you.