The morning didn't rush him, but Reyhaan couldn't find the rhythm of it. He sat by the window, a half-eaten slice of toast cooling in one hand, his phone heavy in the other. Sunlight crawled down his sleeve, too bright for the static in his head.

He hadn't touched breakfast.

Aria's face kept surfacing—uninvited, perhaps, but never unwelcome. It wasn't just her reticence last night that snagged at him; it was the tension threading through her posture, like a string pulled taut and left to vibrate. She had stood by the patio railing while Maya and Kian laughed, present in body but drifting somewhere he couldn't reach.

He unlocked his phone.

Hey. Morning. Did you get enough sleep?

He stared at the words. Backspaced.

Hi. You okay?

Too sharp. Too direct. It sounded like an accusation of fragility. He deleted that, too.

His thumb hovered over the keypad. He didn't want to be the overbearing friend, the guy who assumed something was wrong just because the air had shifted. But the memory of her arms crossed tight against her chest wouldn't leave him. He needed her to know she didn't have to carry that invisible weight alone.

Good morning. Are you on your way to Vireo yet?

Simple. Low stakes. But it didn't hide the truth: he was asking because he wanted to show up. Because he already knew he would.

Her reply chimed a minute later.

Aria: Hey. Not yet – just getting ready. :)

No deflection. No delay. Just her.

Reyhaan closed the message, the knot in his chest loosening. He set the mug in the sink, grabbed his backpack and keys from the hook, and didn't tell her he was coming.

He just went.

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Ten minutes later, he killed the engine down the lane from her building. Weekday traffic was just beginning to bruise the morning air; sparrows darted between rooflines, restless.

Reyhaan tapped a rhythmic code against the steering wheel. Was this a mistake? She hadn't asked for a ride. He hadn't offered. But the instinct to be near her was louder than the logic telling him to stay away.

A metallic groan drew his gaze—the main gate opening.

There she was.

She wore a simple black dress, soft and understated, but it framed her differently today. There was a composure to her stride he hadn't seen before, a self-possession that made him pause. He almost lifted a hand to wave, then let it drop. Instead, he flicked the headlights. A signal.

Aria froze mid-step. She turned, brows drawing together, an expression suspended between confusion and recognition.

He rolled down the window as she approached.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth but didn't quite land.

Reyhaan shrugged, keeping it loose. "Tram fares are rising. I'm saving you a few euros."

She exhaled a laugh—barely there, but real. "You didn't have to."

"I know."

She hesitated, lips parting as if to argue, then shook her head and circled to the passenger side. The seatbelt clicked, sealing them in.

They drove through patches of sun, the car filling not with silence, but with the comfortable hum of the road. She stared ahead, then at her hands, then briefly at him.

"Did you sleep okay?" he asked.

"Mm-hm." She nodded. "You?"

"Eventually."

Aria turned back to the window. "The stars were bright last night," she said, unprompted.

"They were. You watched them?"

"Yeah. Just... for a while."

He wanted to ask what she had been thinking about in the dark, but he let the question die. The conversation drifted to safer ground—traffic, billboards, Maya's chaotic meme from the night before that Aria had topped with a sticker.

When they reached her office, he pulled to the curb. Aria unbuckled.

"Well..." she turned toward him. "Thanks for the save."

He opened his mouth—maybe to say anytime, maybe to say wait—but the door was already thudding shut.

Glancing at the empty seat, a glint of metal caught his eye. A tiny earring clasp, wedged in the corner crease.

He snatched it up and stepped out. A gust of wind hit him, tugging at his jacket.

"Aria," he called.

She turned, stopping short as he closed the distance. Her left earring hung loose, tangled in wind-blown strands of hair.

Without a word, Reyhaan reached up. He plucked the earring free, his fingers grazing her skin. Her breath hitched—a sound so faint the wind almost stole it.

"You dropped the clasp in the car." He held them both out.

Aria blinked, hand flying to her ear. "Oh—I didn't even notice. Thank you."

She tried to reattach it, but the wind fought her. Fingers missed the post; hair caught in the clasp. Her bag slipped, bumping her side.

Reyhaan stepped closer. He held out a hand.

She stilled.

He took the tote bag from her arm, sliding it onto his own shoulder. Then he pulled out his phone, flipped the camera, and held it up like a mirror.

"Here."

"That's creative," she breathed, a laugh surfacing.

"I'm versatile."

She tried again, but the wind scattered her hair across her cheek, blinding her.

Reyhaan shifted the phone to his right hand. He took one step in, encroaching on her space but not crowding it. His free hand hovered, then settled lightly near her temple. Slowly, he tucked the strands behind her ear.

The texture of her hair was soft against his fingers. He was careful, deliberate. Not rushing. Not claiming. Just clearing the way.

Aria didn't pull back. The street noise seemed to dampen, fading behind the sound of her exhale and the thud of his own pulse.

Then, with her hand steadier now, she slid the earring in. Tick.

Her gaze remained on the phone screen for a beat too long before lifting to meet his.

"...Thank you," she whispered.

Reyhaan lowered his hand, letting the strands fall. He clicked the phone shut, stepping back to let the air circulate between them again. He passed her the bag. Her fingers curled around the strap, and when it slid, he caught it, adjusting it on her shoulder.

A habit. A reflex.

She looked at him, searching.

"I should head," he cleared his throat.

Aria nodded, her expression softening like a door she hadn't realized was locked had just clicked open.

He turned, took two steps.

"Reyhaan?"

He looked back.

She tucked that same strand of hair behind her ear. "Let me know... when you reach the studio?"

The request was small, but the weight of it hit him in the center of his chest. It wasn't a check-in. It was a reach.

He nodded, a smile breaking through. "Will do."

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The studio door sealed the world out with a padded thud. Here, the air smelled of soldered wires and espresso—the scent of work, of home. A bassline looped from the monitors, a texture he could feel in his teeth.

Jay hung backward over a chair, spinning a guitar pick. Ilan was crouched by the synth, wrestling a cable connection.

"Look who's finally graced us with his moody presence," Jay grinned.

"What is that? Ten minutes late," Ilan noted without looking up. "That's a full hour in soundcheck time."

Reyhaan dropped his bag by the amp. "Five."

"Five minutes late, or five extra layers of mystery added to your aura?" Jay winked.

"He was probably coming from his secret life," Ilan said, pushing a slider that made the speakers whine. "Moonlighting as a noir detective."

"Okay, spill," Jay tossed the pick at a cup and missed. "Coming from somewhere important, or just walking slow for dramatic effect?"

Reyhaan hesitated. The answer was simple—I dropped Aria off. But her thank you was still echoing in his ears. The way she hadn't pulled back when he touched her hair felt too fragile to drag into the studio banter.

"Stopped for coffee," he signed, shrugging. "Got caught in the wind."

Ilan snorted. "Fair enough. We're cleaning up Jay's sonic mess."

"I fixed the pop filter!" Jay protested, pointing. "It only falls on your head once every four takes now."

Reyhaan laughed—a soft, unexpected sound that surprised even him. He moved toward the keyboard rig.

Ilan looked up. "You missed the part where Jay tried to convince me—"

Clink.

The sound cut through the room—sharp, hollow, metallic. Like a tool dropped on concrete.

Reyhaan froze. His fingers curled into a claw against the keys.

It wasn't just a noise. It was a frequency he recognized. It slid under his skin, triggering a memory of a dark garage, a shadow.

"Oops," Ilan muttered, glancing at the synth stand. "Loose screw again."

But Reyhaan couldn't unhear it. His gaze snapped to the shadow stretching beneath the equipment rack. His throat went dry.

"Rey?" Ilan's voice sharpened. "You okay?"

Reyhaan blinked, the studio rushing back in. "Yeah. Sorry. Spaced."

But Ilan was already watching him, eyes narrowing. He waited.

Reyhaan exhaled. There was no point hiding it. Not here.

"It's probably nothing," he said. "But... there's been this feeling. Like someone's watching me."

Jay straightened in his chair. "Where?"

"Three times," Reyhaan counted. "Parking lot here. Aria's place. And yesterday... outside Maya and Kian's."

"Yesterday?" Ilan frowned.

"I didn't see anyone. But Aria... she noticed the sound too. She turned."

The room cooled. The playful energy evaporated, replaced by a sharp alertness.

"That's not nothing," Ilan said.

"If someone's tailing you, we log it," Jay said, voice hard.

Ilan was already reaching for his phone. "I'm calling Leo. We're pulling the CCTV from the basement. Now."

Twenty minutes later, the grainy monochrome of the security feed filled the main monitor.

They watched Silas's van arrive. Then Jay's bike. Then Lucian.

"Rewind," Reyhaan said, leaning in. "Just before I walked in."

There.

Movement at the edge of the frame. A shadow in the far corner, just beyond the reach of the overhead strip.

"Pause," Ilan commanded.

"You see that?" Jay squinted.

Before the figure could resolve—static. The screen glitched. By the time it cleared, Reyhaan was walking into frame, and the corner was empty.

"The blind spot," Ilan muttered. "Leo said coverage cuts out there for six seconds."

Jay exhaled through his teeth. "So if someone wanted to stay hidden..."

"...they'd know exactly where to stand," Reyhaan finished.

The realization settled over them, heavier than the bassline. This wasn't an accident.

"This was planned," Ilan said.

Reyhaan stared at the frozen static. The shadow on the screen echoed the one in his gut.

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The rooftop garden breathed a different kind of air—lavender and exhaust, cooled by the height. The city below was dipping into velvet blue.

Reyhaan stood at the rail, collar turned up. He didn't hear Lucian approach until his shadow blocked the ambient light.

Lucian didn't waste time. He leaned against the glass railing and held out his phone.

"Side entry footage. Timestamped last night."

On the screen: a grainy still. A man, half-shadowed behind a column. Too still. Too watchful.

Reyhaan didn't take the phone. He pressed his thumb into the railing until the knuckle turned white.

"We don't know who he is yet," Lucian said, tone even. "But we're ahead of it. You're not alone in this."

Reyhaan nodded, reaching for the notebook in his pocket. His voice was rough from the session, so he wrote instead.

One step ahead is good. But it might not be enough.

Lucian glanced at the scribbled note. "Security will start tailing. You don't have to say anything yet. But if it were me..." He trailed off, looking out at the skyline. "I'd want to make sure the people I care about aren't caught in the ripple."

Reyhaan's pen hovered.

I'm not sure how to tell her.

Lucian nodded.

Reyhaan pulled out his phone. He opened Aria's chat.

Hey. Just wanted to ask – have you noticed –

Backspace.

Be careful when you –

Delete.

He stared at his own reflection in the black screen.

He locked the phone.

The air was cooling, biting through his coat. The city lights flickered to life, pixel by pixel, indifferent to the threat lurking in their shadows. He pocketed the notebook. The decision wasn't made, but the direction was clear. He couldn't leave her exposed.

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Over the next few days, habits formed without permission.

Reyhaan started waiting across the street from her office. Not just to check the shadows, but to catch the way she walked toward him—shoulders dropping, a smile already forming before she reached the car.

"Rough day?" he asked one evening as she slid in.

"Not really. Just long." She paused. "It helps. You being here."

They took the long route home. They walked when the weather held. Once, their knuckles grazed. The contact sparked, electric and terrifying. He pulled back a fraction—just enough to keep the line uncrossed, but not enough to break the connection.

One night, her seatbelt jammed.

"Hang on," he murmured, leaning over.

She stilled. He could smell the rain on her coat, hear the catch in her breath. He guided the belt loose, his shoulder brushing hers as it clicked into place.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He gave a half-smile, focusing on the road to keep from looking at her mouth.

When he dropped her off, she lingered at the door.

"My parents are arriving in a few days," she said. "We finally worked out the dates."

"That's good. You'll be with family."

"Yeah." She looked at him, eyes unreadable in the streetlamp's glow. "But this... It's started to feel like something, too."

She turned and walked up the path. Safe. Whole.

Reyhaan leaned his head back against the seat, the ghost of her touch still tingling on his skin. Streetlights bled gold across the windshield.

He didn't know if he was protecting her from the truth or from himself. He wanted to tell her. But telling her meant breaking the peace they'd built. It meant asking her to carry a fear she hadn't chosen.

But he knew this: he wasn't just staying to watch the shadows. He was staying because the car felt empty the moment she left it. He was staying because this orbit—the drives, the walks, the quiet recognition—had become the only place he wanted to be.