"Where are you?" Zyren's voice boomed through my phone speaker.
My eyes narrowed as I tore through my closet.
"I'll be there soon." My voice was still raspy as I ended the call.
How the hell did the fucker even get my number?
I grabbed my towel and rushed into the shower. The freezing water made me hiss.
My head was everywhere.
I had stayed up all night digging through new leads on the case.
My mark had been burning again.
It only ever did that when I was working on my parents' murder.
Like something or someone was warning me.
I believe in ghosts.
I'm just not stupid enough not to fear them.
My entire life has been a horror movie.
I wore blue jeans, a black sheer top, and a dark blue trench coat before heading out.
His place was weirdly close to mine.
Not close in the obvious way.
Close in the unsettling way.
If I walked behind my house and kept going straight, I'd reach his building. Far enough to dismiss. Close enough to notice.
And from his window…
You could see my detective board.
My pulse spiked as images flashed through my mind. Me pacing, pinning evidence, talking to myself in panties while piecing together clues.
Could he see all of that?
No.
The houses were too far apart.
Right?
I knocked.
Three seconds later, the door opened.
Everything slowed And sped up.
He was shirtless.
Water droplets clung to his chest. His hair was damp and curly.
That was new.
He wasn't massive. Not fragile either.
He looked like someone who could hold you still… and still have strength left to test you.
He looked down at me, and our height difference felt heavier than usual.
I could feel his breath.
That shouldn't have been possible at this distance.
My senses sharpened.
Every time I was near him, something shifted.
My hearing heightened.
My vision blurred and sharpened at the same time.
His breathing wasn't steady.
It was controlled but strained.
Like he had been waiting for me to stand exactly where I was.
Like his body recognized something before his mind did.
My knees weakened.
My mark burned.
Blood rushed, hot and reckless.
His eyes stayed locked on mine.
But it felt like he was undressing me with them.
"Uhm—" I cleared my throat, forcing both of us back into reality.
I pushed lightly against his chest and slipped past him into the apartment.
Palette of white, grey , black.
It was minimal. Calculated.
It reminded me of my aunt's house, only colder.
I wandered slightly, pretending not to care.
Then I saw it.
A single black baccarat flower.
Fully bloomed.
My mark flared like fire.
I felt him behind me.
The scent. The anticipation. That day.
My senses spiraled.
"I didn't know you were into flowers," he said casually.
"I'm not." My voice came out quieter than intended. "Those were my mom's favorite."
Silence.
"Oh." His tone shifted. "I'm sorry."
My head turned sharply.
"For what?"
"I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine." I cut him off, placing my bag and jacket down. "Let's start. I'm already late."
He didn't move immediately.
For a second, I felt it again.
That strange stillness.
Like the air between us was deciding something.
Then he walked past me toward his desk.
"Sit," he said, nodding to the chair across from him.
Not a command.
But not a suggestion either.
I sat.
His desk was immaculate.
Laptop open. Case files aligned. Notes color-coded.
Of course.
"You started already," I observed.
"I always start early." He didn't look up. "Unlike some people."
I scoffed. "I was finishing the entire outline while i was home."
That made him pause.
Slowly, he leaned back in his chair and finally looked at me.
"Entire outline?"
I slid my folder across the desk.
His fingers brushed mine when he took it.
My mark flared. Hot.
Like it was reacting to him.
He flipped through the pages quickly.
Too quickly. His eyes scanned like a machine.
"Victimology approach instead of behavioral reconstruction," he muttered. "Bold."
"It's efficient."
"It's risky."
I tilted my head. "You scared?"
A slow smirk.
"Of you? Never."
My heart betrayed me and kicked once harder than necessary.
He stood abruptly.
"Come here."
I didn't like how easily my body obeyed.
He pulled up something on his laptop , a crime scene reconstruction model rotating on screen.
"We combine both approaches," he said. "You handle the victim profile. I'll handle offender projection."
"Control issues?" I asked.
"Trust issues?" he countered.
Silence.
Something in his tone had shifted.
Subtle. But there.
I stepped closer to see the screen better.
Too close.
His shoulder brushed mine.
And suddenly my mark burned violently.
My vision flickered.
For a split second The room wasn't his anymore.
It was darker.
The same scent from that night.
Metallic. Cold. My breath caught.
And Zyren's hand shot out to steady me before I even stumbled.
His grip tightened around my wrist. Like he had known it would happen.
"You okay?" His voice was lower now. No smirk.
My hearing sharpened again. His heartbeat.
Fast. Not calm.
Not controlled.
"I'm fine," I lied.
But he didn't let go.His eyes searched mine.
Not competitively, almost… cautiously.
"You do that sometimes," he said quietly.
"Do what?" "Zone out like you're somewhere else."
My stomach dropped.
How many times has he noticed?
I pulled my hand away.
"I don't."
He didn't argue.
And for the first time since I met him…
Zyren wasn't smiling. Silence stretched between us for a moment before he stepped back, clearing his throat.
"We should focus," he said flatly, turning back toward the screen.
Right. The project.
We spent the next hour working through case theories and offender profiling models. Or at least pretending to.
Every time he leaned too close, my mark heated.
Every time I tried to ignore it, it pulsed harder.
Like it was trying to get my attention.
Or warn me.
Eventually, my eyes drifted from the screen to the window behind his desk.
The curtains were half open.
And from this angle—
I could see my building.
My stomach twisted. I stepped closer.
My room was visible from here.
Not the whole thing.Just enough.
The wall where my detective board was pinned. The colored tape.
"You have a pretty clear view," I said slowly.
He didn't answer.
I turned slightly
And that's when I saw it.
Mounted beside the window.
A telescope, not decorative but positioned.
It was adjusted.
Facing directly toward my side of the building.
My mark burned. Hard.
A familiar, nauseating heat spread across the back of my neck.
"How long have you lived here?" I asked, my voice quieter now.
"Long enough." I swallowed.
He followed my gaze to the telescope but didn't move to explain.
Didn't move to deny it either.
The silence that followed felt heavier than anything he had said all day.
And suddenly, working with Zyren didn't feel like the worst part of this semester anymore.