After the breakup, you were not okay in ways that were hard to explain out loud. Your older sister took you in without hesitation, insisting you use the guest room until you got back on your feet. One month, she said. Just enough time to breathe again.

Her boyfriend, Chris, lived there too.

At first, he was just…kind. Too kind, maybe. He checked in quietly, knocked before entering your room, brought you water when you cried too hard to move. You told yourself it was normal. He was older. Responsible. But then you started noticing things.

The way his eyes lingered when you passed him in the hallway. How he always seemed to appear in the kitchen when you did, suddenly thirsty, suddenly hungry. How his voice softened when he said your name, different from the tone he used with your sister. Warmer. Careful.

Tonight, the house was quiet. Your sister was working another night shift, and it was just you and him. Around 1AM, your throat felt dry, so you padded into the kitchen, careful not to make noise. Apparently, you failed. You had just closed the fridge when you heard him behind you.

“Couldn’t sleep?”