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The first time you come home and the apartment is clean, you think you've lost time.
Not in the dramatic way—no missing hours, no gaps in memory. Just the quiet confusion of seeing order where you distinctly remember leaving chaos.
The dishes are done.
The counter wiped.
Your books stacked neatly instead of scattered where you dropped them.
You stand in the doorway, bag still slung over your shoulder, heart ticking a little too fast.
"Hello?" you call.
Nothing answers.
You step inside slowly, every sense tuned sharp. The place smells faintly of citrus cleaner and something warmer underneath—coffee, maybe.
You didn't make coffee this morning.
You didn't even own that cleaner.
Then you see him.
He's in the kitchen, back turned to you, sleeves of a simple dark shirt rolled up to his forearms. No glow. No runes visible. No divine distortion bending the air.
He looks… human.
Still impossibly beautiful, still carrying himself with that effortless authority—but restrained. Contained. Like he's chosen a shape the world can tolerate.
He turns when he hears you.
Smiles.
"You're late," he says mildly.
Your bag slips from your shoulder and hits the floor.
"You—" Your throat tightens. "You're here."
"I'm often here," he replies. "You just didn't see me before."
He gestures to the counter. "I hope you don't mind. The place was… stressing you."
"That's my stress," you snap. "You don't get to—"
He lifts a brow.
"You don't like it?" he asks.
The words are calm. Reasonable.
You look around again. Everything is exactly where it should be. The sink gleams. The clutter that usually presses at the edges of your mind is gone.
Your anger falters, traitorous.
"I didn't ask you to clean," you say quietly.
"No," he agrees. "But you benefit from it."
You hate that he's right.
From that day on, it becomes routine.
You come home to small improvements you didn't request but can't deny help you breathe easier. Laundry folded. Trash taken out. Groceries restocked—not extravagantly, just thoughtfully. Your favorite snacks appear when you're too tired to cook.
He never announces himself.
He's simply there.
Sometimes sitting at the table, reading one of your books. Sometimes leaning against the counter, watching you move through the space like it's a performance meant for him alone.
Always lingering.
Always watching.
The mornings are worse.
On nights you stay up too late—papers, exams, spiraling thoughts—you wake to the smell of food.
Eggs. Toast. Coffee brewed exactly the way you like it.
He moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, barefoot, sleeves rolled, hair loosely tied back. A domestic image so normal it makes your chest ache.
"You should eat," he says without turning. "You slept four hours and twenty minutes."
"You timed me?" you ask.
He glances over his shoulder, amused. "You breathe differently when you're exhausted."
You sit anyway.
You always sit.
"You don't have to do this," you say, voice low.
He sets a plate in front of you. The eggs are perfect. Of course they are.
"I know," he says.
That's it.
No justification. No explanation.
Just certainty.
You start noticing how carefully he avoids being seen by others.
When Mira visits, he's gone.
Not hidden.
Absent.
The apartment feels emptier when she's there, like something important stepped out of the room. You catch yourself glancing toward the places he usually occupies—the doorway, the corner by the window.
Mira frowns when she notices.
"You okay?" she asks. "You keep… looking around."
"Just tired," you lie.
Later, after she leaves, he reappears without a sound.
"She watches you closely," he observes.
You bristle. "Don't talk about her like that."
"I'm not," he says calmly. "I'm assessing risk."
"She's not a risk."
"Not yet."
You turn on him. "You don't get to decide that."
He steps closer—not threatening, not looming. Just close enough that his presence presses against you like gravity.
"I decide what endangers you," he says quietly. "That is the agreement you have not spoken but continue to uphold."
"There is no agreement."
He studies your face.
"Then why do you let me stay?" he asks.
You don't have an answer.
Days pass. Then weeks.
He becomes woven into your routines so subtly you don't notice until it's too late. You start setting aside food without thinking. You pause before leaving a room, half-expecting a comment. You sleep better when you sense him nearby.
That realization makes you sick.
"You're changing me," you accuse one night.
He's seated on the floor, back against the couch, watching you from below with that unnerving stillness.
"No," he says. "I'm removing friction."
"You're isolating me."
He considers that.
"You still see others," he says. "You still attend classes. You still speak. Laugh."
"But only you see me," you whisper.
"Yes."
The word lands heavier than it should.
"Why?" you ask.
He looks at you then—really looks.
"Because this version of me is not meant for the world," he says. "Only for you."
The implication coils around your spine.
You realize something else, slowly and horribly:
He never touches you without permission.
Never forces.
Never threatens.
He waits.
And that patience is more terrifying than anything he could do by force.
Late one night, as you drift toward sleep, you feel his gaze on you.
"You're staring," you murmur.
"I'm watching," he corrects gently.
"For what?"
He pauses.
"For the moment you stop asking me to leave."
Your eyes open.
He's already standing, shadowed in the doorway, perfectly still.
"You'll tell me," he says softly, "without words."
The light clicks off.
You lie awake in the dark, heart racing, with the unbearable knowledge that the most frightening thing about him isn't his power—
It's how easily he's learned how to belong.