Iris hadn't slept well for nights.
Not because of the city, not because of shadows, not even because of the messages.
It was him.
Rowan.
He moved around the apartment quietly, almost reverently, as if touching anything out of place would shatter some invisible order. He hummed while folding her laundry, adjusted the blinds with precise angles, checked the temperature in the room like he was measuring her comfort, not the air.
And she watched.
She wanted to be angry.
She wanted to tell him to stop.
But every time she opened her mouth, his voice—soft, measured, intimate—stopped her.
"You're exhausted," he said, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "Let me take care of you."
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to recoil, to step back.
But she didn't.
Because she trusted him.
She had to.
Later, Iris went to her room to check her phone, pretending casual curiosity. It buzzed immediately.
You're too tired to think clearly.
Her heart leapt, a strange mix of fear and clarity. She didn't need to ask who sent it.
She already knew.
Her pulse pounded.
The Unknown wasn't watching from the streets or through hidden cameras. It wasn't a shadow she could run from.
It had always been here.
Always.
Rowan entered then, as if sensing her pause.
"You're worrying again," he said lightly, sliding onto the bed beside her. "Come here."
Her body wanted to obey before her mind could argue.
He tucked a blanket around her shoulders, brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and kissed her temple. Warm. Familiar. Loving.
But something in the kiss—too slow, too careful—made her flinch.
"You feel like someone else is here," he murmured. "But it's just us, Iris."
She wanted to scream, "No!"
But she didn't.
Instead, she felt trapped between relief and dread, love and terror.
The phone buzzed again on the nightstand. She ignored it.
Rowan's eyes flicked to it for just a moment, then back to her.
"You don't have to look," he said softly. "I'll tell you what it says."
Her hands froze.
"I've always known what you need before you do," he whispered.
The words sank in like stones in water.
She could feel it now.
Every gesture, every message, every protective smile, every soft whisper—all of it had been orchestrated.
She wasn't loved.
She was contained.
Iris finally realized, with a chill she couldn't shake:
The Unknown wasn't unknown.
It wasn't a stranger in the dark.
It was Rowan.
The person she trusted most.
The person who had built her world around him, piece by piece.
The person she had loved.
And for the first time, she understood the true meaning of the messages:
You're safer when you listen.
Not a warning.
A rule.
A cage.