The bed dips.
Fuck.
My entire body goes rigid.
I open my eyes just enough to look, slow, careful, like I'm afraid the air itself will crack if I move too fast.
She's there.
Right fucking there.
Sleeping beside me.
For a solid three seconds, my brain refuses to compute what the hell I'm looking at. Then it hits — she's not awake. Not even close. Her face is turned toward mine, hair spilling across the pillow, breathing soft and slow. The tiniest crease sits between her brows, like even in her sleep she's still mad at me.
It takes another beat before I realize why.
She's been doing this all week.
At my grandfather's place.
She slept in the bed. I took the couch. Every damn night.
Muscle memory.
Her body just moved. Bathroom. Bed. Instinct. No thought.
And now she's here. In my bed. In our room. In my chaos.
I let out a slow, silent breath, my chest barely moving. My pulse isn't so kind — it's pounding, wild, like it wants to crawl out of my skin and scream.
She shifts a little, murmurs something I can't catch, and her knee brushes my thigh.
Holy fuck.
I freeze like a man about to detonate. Every nerve lights up. My jaw tightens until it aches, and my hand twitches with the need to do something — move, touch, pull away, I don't even know.
Her breath hits my collarbone. Warm. Real. Too close.
She doesn't even know. She has no fucking idea what that does to me.
I stare at her, eyes tracing the edge of her face — the way her lashes rest against her skin, the soft rise of her chest under the blanket, that loose T-shirt slipping off one shoulder like gravity's working overtime. It's insane how someone can look like peace and disaster at the same time.
She exhales again. A soft sound.
Then — she smiles.
In her sleep.
And I swear, it almost kills me.
A quiet, small smile, the kind that barely curves her lips but hits right in the center of my goddamn chest. Like her body just remembered something safe. Maybe the warmth. Maybe the space. Maybe…..
I don't know. I shouldn't care. But I do. Way too much.
I find myself grinning, just a little, like an idiot.
Because fuck, she looks happy. She never smiles like that when she's awake — not at me, anyway. Not anymore.
I lean back, trying to breathe normal again, but my brain's already gone rogue.
Every thought turns to her — how close she is, how easy it'd be to reach out, brush that hair off her face, trace the line of her jaw, feel the heat of her skin. Just feel something.
But I don't.
Because I know myself.
Once I touch, I don't stop.
So I lie there.
Completely still.
Every second dragging. Every inhale feeling like I'm stealing air that belongs to her.
The world outside could end, and I wouldn't even notice.
She shifts again, closer this time, her fingers brushing my arm like a goddamn accident.
And that's it.
That's the moment my self-control actually shatters a little.
Because how do you stay sane when the one person who drives you insane chooses your space — even half-asleep — like it's where she belongs?
I stare at her for too long. My eyes burn, my throat feels tight, and there's this raw ache in my chest that won't let up.
I whisper, barely audible, "You're gonna ruin me, aren't you?"
She doesn't answer. Just breathes. Soft, steady, like a quiet promise I'll never get to keep.
I close my eyes, finally letting the chaos bleed out slow.
And for once, I stop fighting it.
Because maybe she's here out of habit.
Maybe it's just her body remembering comfort.
But fuck, it's the closest I've been to peace in four years.
_________________
ARSHILA'S POV
The wind screams. My hands slip. The world just—drops.
Cold.
Salt.
Nothing but blue swallowing me whole.
I hit the water so hard it feels like glass breaking around my body. My lungs seize. My eyes burn. Every heartbeat sounds like someone slamming a door inside my skull. The sea drags me down and down, and for one stupid second I think, this is it, this is how I go—like a dumbass falling off a cliff.
Blood blooms somewhere near my head, thick and lazy, curling through the water like paint in a jar. I can't see. Can't move. I try to gasp but get a mouthful of ocean instead. Everything turns black.
Then—air.
I jolt up like I've been electrocuted.
Chest heaving. Heart sprinting. Skin slick with sweat.
The ceiling's not the sky. It's the Tavarian ceiling.
And I'm… breathing. Alive.
"What the actual—" My voice comes out cracked. I blink, disoriented, trying to process. Pillows. Sheets. The smell of something expensive and annoyingly familiar.
Then it hits.
The bed.
His bed.
"What the fuck."
I throw the blanket off like it's evidence from a crime scene. My brain's lagging behind my body, still trying to reboot after that horror film of a dream, but all I can think is—why the hell am I in his bed?
I scan the room. Empty. No Zayan. No movement. Just his jacket on the chair and the faintest scent of his cologne still clinging to the air like it owns the place.
"Did I—kick him out? In my sleep?"
Silence.
"Did I sleepwalk ? Is that my new hobby now? Walking into danger like an idiot?"
I run a hand through my hair, trying to remember last night. Nothing but static.
"Great," I mutter, staring at the spot beside me. "Fantastic. I'm evolving into a menace."
The sheets are still warm. His side. Which somehow makes it worse. My brain's doing that thing again—running scenarios I never asked for. Him here. Me asleep. Close. Too close.
"Get your shit together," I whisper to myself. "He's probably downstairs. Breathing. Existing. Ruining peace like usual."
I swing my legs off the bed, still groggy, still annoyed at reality for being this confusing, and stomp toward the bathroom. The floor feels like it's laughing at me.
Inside, I catch my reflection and nearly snort. My hair looks like I survived a thunderstorm and a mugging. Eyes red. Shirt twisted. I look like the villain in a post-apocalyptic romcom.
I splash water on my face, trying to rinse the dream off my skin. But it clings—the image of falling, the water swallowing me, the helplessness. It felt too real. Too vivid. Like something my subconscious is trying to slap me with.
I grab the towel, muttering, "Of course, it's me. Having near-death dreams and waking up in my husband's damn bed like a psycho."
The mirror doesn't answer, but I swear it's judging me.
I sigh, long and hard. "Next time I sleepwalk, universe, at least make it somewhere less humiliating. Like a volcano."
Still, under all the sarcasm, that dream won't leave. The feeling of falling, drowning, choking—it's sitting somewhere under my ribs, quiet but heavy. Like a warning.
And maybe that's the worst part. Because even though I'm awake now, everything still feels a little tilted. Like the fall hasn't actually stopped yet.
I towel my face dry and drag my hair into a messy bun that looks like it's holding on for dear life. The dream's still hanging on the back of my neck, heavy and sticky, but whatever. I need coffee. Or an exorcism.
The house is too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes you suspicious, like the air's in on a secret.
I pad through the hallway, bare feet on the cold floor, the echo of my own footsteps sounding too damn loud. The foyer's drenched in morning light — everything glass, marble, and money — but it doesn't help my pulse chill out. My brain's still replaying that dream like it's a movie trailer from hell.
Then I see him.
Sitting on the couch.
Still damp. Hair dark, sticking to his forehead in a way that should be illegal. Grey T-shirt, joggers, skin still glistening from the shower, like he just walked out of some 'after workout' commercial for heartbreak.
And the TV's on. Of course it is. He's staring at the news like it personally owes him something.
I clear my throat. Once. Twice.
A "hey-I'm-here" kind of cough.
Nothing.
The audacity of this man.
I cough louder this time, like a dying bird trying to get noticed.
Still nothing. His eyes are glued to the anchor.
"Where did you sleep last night?" I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He doesn't look at me. Doesn't even blink. "Why you want to know?"
That tone. The same one that makes people flinch. It's not loud, but it cuts like a clean blade.
I blink, caught off guard, then cross my arms because apparently my body runs on defense mode. "Bro, just asking."
That gets him. He finally turns his head. His eyes find mine — dark, unreadable, too calm for someone who apparently doesn't sleep in his own damn bed.
And he just… looks.
For a few seconds too long.
The kind of stare that feels like he's peeling layers off you, like he knows something you don't.
Then he says, "In my study."
My lungs deflate so fast I almost laugh. "Oh. Ohhh, okay. Must be comfortable there, huh?"
He finally smirks. That slow, tiny, dangerous one that makes my brain lag. "You sound like you checked."
My stomach drops. "What? No. I didn't. Why would I—" I cut myself off before I spiral. "I was just… asking."
He hums. Not even a real answer, just that low sound that somehow feels like a question, a threat, and a joke all at once.
And I'm there, standing like an idiot in his oversized shirt, half ready to argue, half relieved out of my damn mind that he didn't see me passed out in his bed like a creep.
He turns back to the TV, relaxed like the conversation never happened. But my brain's still in crisis mode.
Because now I can't stop thinking about it — him sleeping in the study, me unconsciously stealing his bed, and how close that could've been to a total humiliation disaster.
The TV's still blaring. He hasn't blinked in, like, a century. I squint at the screen, because whatever has him this zoned in better be aliens or at least a scandal.
Nope. It's the news.
Of course.
The anchor's one of those people who talk like every sentence is breaking history. Perfect hair, dramatic pause after every third word.
"—there's suspicion among the cops that the vigilante isn't working alone. They believe it's a group of people—highly organized, impossible to trace—"
Okay, that's what he's watching? Crime documentaries? At breakfast?
I glance at him. Still stone. Elbows on his knees, eyes locked, like the TV's whispering state secrets directly to him. There's a little drop of water running down his neck. It's ridiculous how my brain can notice that and the word "murder" in the same second.
The anchor keeps going. "It's been five years since the killings began. Nearly fifty victims, all high-profile figures—politicians, businessmen, celebrities. And every single one accused, or rumored to be involved, in sexual or physical abuse toward women or children. Each case 'unsolved,' but authorities believe the same person—or persons—is responsible."
Fifty. God.
I lean on the armrest, eyes flicking between him and the screen. "You're really into this stuff, huh?"
No answer. Not even a grunt. He's sitting perfectly still, jaw set like he's carved out of focus itself.
"Damn," I mumble, half to myself, "bet the cops are losing their minds."
The anchor's voice drops lower, dramatic. "Cops now believe the vigilante cannot be one person. The planning, precision, and consistency suggest a coordinated group—a secret network operating outside the law."
My brain does that dumb cinematic thing again, stitching images together—shadows, blood, thunder—and for a stupid heartbeat, it almost fits him. The calm. The silence. The control.
I shake it off. "So basically Batman with friends."
That earns me a tiny twitch from him. Barely there. His eyes stay glued to the TV, but the corner of his mouth shifts just enough for me to know he heard.
I roll my eyes. "What, you part of the investigation or something? You look like you're trying to telepathically solve crime."
He exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, almost a warning. "It's noise. Keeps people occupied."
"What, murder?"
He tilts his head slightly, still not looking at me. "Stories like this. They make the world think someone out there's fixing it for them."
That shouldn't sound hot, but it does. The low voice, the quiet conviction—it does something to my spine I don't approve of.
I force a laugh. "Yeah, well, at least someone's doing something. Maybe they deserve a fucking medal."
That's when he looks at me. Finally.
It's quick. But intense enough to shut me up mid-breath. His eyes dark, sharp, holding a thousand things I don't understand yet.
He says nothing. Just holds that stare for a heartbeat longer than comfort allows, then looks back at the screen like I never existed.
The anchor keeps talking—something about the government forming a special task force—but I'm barely hearing it. My pulse is doing cartwheels for no reason.
He says quietly, almost to himself, "People love the idea of justice. They just don't want to know what it costs."
That line hits weirdly hard.
I blink at him. "Okay, philosopher. Calm down before I start thinking you are the vigilante."
He finally smirks. That same calm, crooked one that ruins my internal peace. "Maybe I am."
I snort. "Yeah, right. You can barely reply to texts, let alone run a murder franchise."
He doesn't answer. Just sits there, expression unreadable, eyes back on the news.
I glance back at the screen again just to have something to look at that isn't him. The anchor's still talking about murders and suspects and whatever fancy theory the cops came up with today. My brain's halfway out the door until I catch myself blurting, "I thought you only watched business crap. Since when do you care about crime?"
His head tilts slightly, the way it always does when he's about to say something that's gonna ruin my peace.
"It's hot."
I blink. "What?"
He doesn't even flinch. "It's hot," he repeats, dead calm, like we're talking about weather and not fucking murder news.
My jaw actually drops. "Are you insane?"
He finally looks at me, eyes still a little too relaxed, like he enjoys watching me short-circuit. "You're the one who said the vigilante was hot," he says, voice low, casual, but there's that damn edge to it — the one that sounds too close, too personal. "And that you'd give him a kiss if you ever saw him in real life."
I freeze.
No fucking way he remembers that.
That was, what, months ago?
"Wow," I manage, trying not to sound like I'm dying inside. "You really hold on to stuff, huh?"
He smirks, barely there. "You said it twice."
Oh my god. Kill me.
"Yeah," I say, forcing out a laugh. "I did. And I still do."
His eyebrow lifts, slow, amused, like he's studying an animal doing something stupid but kind of entertaining.
"That makes you creepy."
I stare at him. "Creepy? Dude, you're the one calling murder news hot."
"Not the murders." His voice dips lower — always calm, always too confident. "The idea."
I frown, mostly to hide the fact that my heart just did something it shouldn't have. "What idea?"
He leans back, eyes still glued to the screen. "Someone out there cleaning up the mess. No trial, no excuses. Just done."
He shrugs, like he didn't just drop a line straight out of a villain monologue.
And the worst part? He says it like it's a fact, not an opinion. Like he's too damn used to things getting "done."
I scoff, even though I can't look away. "You scare me sometimes."
He glances at me — slow blink, faint smirk. "You said that before too."
"Yeah, and you didn't deny it then either."
He exhales, something that almost sounds like a laugh but not really. "You like being scared."
I blink hard. "Excuse me?"
His smirk deepens, but he doesn't say anything else. Just looks back at the TV again, pretending he didn't just drop that verbal bomb like it's nothing.
Silence takes over again. The TV hums in the background, but my brain's somewhere else — looping his words, his tone, the way he said it's hot like it meant something entirely different.
I pull my legs up on the couch, trying to act unbothered, but he's right there — still damp from the shower, muscles shifting under that stupid T-shirt, eyes fixed on chaos like it's his comfort zone.
And I hate it.
Because I can't tell what's worse — the fact that he remembers every tiny thing I say, or the way he makes everything sound like it means more than it should.
____________
Zayan's POV
She's sitting right next to me. Legs tucked up, coffee mug between her hands, the news still blaring names that sound like ghosts.
And she has no idea.
Not one damn clue.
The world calls it a vigilante.
I hate that word.
Makes it sound like some cape-wearing saint with a savior complex.
I'm not saving anyone.
I'm just… removing rot.
Scraping off what the system refuses to touch.
And somehow that makes me the monster.
She's close enough that I can smell her shampoo—peach and danger mixed—and my brain starts running a thousand miles an hour, half of it tracking the rhythm of her breathing, half of it spinning on the same thought that never dies: if she ever knew.
If she ever knew that the man she shares air with, laughs with, fights with, sleeps under the same roof with—is the same ghost they've been hunting for five years.
I watch her laugh at the reporter's fake serious face, and it hits me in waves—she's sitting beside the headline. Beside the myth. And she's still so damn calm.
It almost feels unfair. Like the universe gave her peace it forgot to give me.
She talks about "the vigilante" like he's a story.
But I remember every scream in stereo.
Not because I like it—because silence after it feels like the first clean breath you take after choking too long.
That's what they'll never understand. It isn't justice. It's balance.
You break enough bones in this world, and eventually, it snaps back.
Her fingers tap the mug. Tiny, distracted rhythm. She's thinking.
And I wonder when I'll let her see it—just a piece of the truth. Maybe not in words. Maybe in something smaller. A pattern. A clue. A phrase she's heard on the news but never from me.
If she's sharp enough, she'll piece it together.
If not… maybe she'll stumble right into it.
And when she does, I'll watch the realization hit.
That flicker in her eyes—that spark of fear.
Because fear is honest. Fear doesn't lie like love does.
And maybe when she's afraid of me, she'll finally understand how deep love really goes.
Because you can't love someone without handing them the knife too.
She says something about how creepy it is, the idea of a person cleaning up the world.
I nod. Smile. Let her think she's safe.
The irony tastes almost sweet.
Her knee brushes mine, accidental, soft, and I have to grip the couch to keep from laughing.
She's touching the devil and doesn't even know it.
And I'm sitting here pretending I'm not dying to tell her everything.
Not yet.
The timing has to be right.
She needs to feel it first—the shift, the static in the air, the moment she realizes the danger was never outside these walls.
She's watching the screen again, and I'm watching her.
Both of us pretending the world makes sense.
One of us knowing the truth: it never will.