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The bus pulls into the station at 6:47 PM on Sunday evening, and I'm exhausted in the best possible way.

The weekend was perfect. Aurora and I spent Saturday wandering through vintage shops in the arts district, trying on ridiculous hats and laughing until our stomachs hurt. We saw an exhibit on contemporary feminist art that made me think about beauty and agency in ways I'd never considered. We ate too much Thai food and gelato and stayed up late talking about everything and nothing.

It was normal. Gloriously, beautifully normal.

The kind of weekend regular college students have all the time but feels like a small miracle for someone like me.

Aurora nudges my shoulder as we gather our bags. "You okay? You've got that faraway look again."

"Just tired," I say, which is true. "Good tired, though."

"Good." She pulls me into a quick hug. "We should do this more often. Get you off campus. Help you remember there's a whole world outside Ardencrest's shark tank."

"Maybe," I say noncommittally, already feeling the familiar anxiety starting to creep back. The city was wonderful, but I'm ready to be back in my space, my routine, my comfort zone.

Ready to see Landon.

The thought comes unbidden, and I try not to examine it too closely. It's normal to miss your best friend after two days apart. Normal to be excited to see him again.

Normal.

We step off the bus into the cool evening air, and I immediately spot him.

Landon is leaning against the station wall, hands in his pockets, looking like he just stepped out of a catalogue for expensive menswear. Dark jeans, a soft gray sweater that makes his eyes look almost silver in the fading light, that perfect hair slightly tousled by the breeze.

The moment he sees me, his entire face lights up.

It's not the controlled, measured smile I've seen him use with other people. It's genuine. Radiant. Like I just made his entire world brighter by existing.

"Sunflower." He's already moving toward me, closing the distance in a few long strides. "Welcome back."

Before I can respond, he pulls me into a hug—warm and encompassing and so safe I feel something in my chest unclench. His arms wrap around me completely, one hand cradling the back of my head, and he's so much taller that I have to tilt my face up against his chest.

"Missed you," he murmurs into my hair, and there's something almost raw in his voice. Vulnerable.

"It was two days," I say, but I'm smiling against his sweater, breathing in his familiar scent—expensive cologne and something clean and distinctly him.

"Two very long days." He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands moving to frame my face. His thumbs brush across my cheekbones—a touch that should probably feel too intimate but just feels right. "Let me see you. You look tired."

"I'm fine. We just walked a lot."

"Hmm." He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he steps back and effortlessly hoists my suitcase. "Come on. I'll walk you back."

Aurora is standing a few feet away, watching us with an expression I can't quite read. When she catches my eye, she smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Thanks for the weekend, Haze," she says, pulling me into another hug. "Text me when you're settled?"

"Of course."

She glances at Landon, then back at me. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

There's something weighted in the words, something that makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. But before I can ask what she means, she's already walking toward the parking lot where Evander's sleek car is waiting.

"Shall we?" Landon offers his arm like we're in some period drama, and despite my exhaustion, I laugh.

"You're ridiculous."

"And yet you love me anyway."

The words hang in the air for a moment—casual, teasing, the kind of thing friends say to each other all the time.

So why does it make my heart do that complicated thing in my chest?

I loop my arm through his, and we start walking back toward campus. The sun is setting, painting everything in shades of amber and gold, and for a moment, everything feels perfect.

Peaceful.

Safe.

We walk in comfortable silence for a while, and I find myself studying him out of the corner of my eye. He looks different somehow. Tired, maybe? There are faint shadows under his eyes that weren't there before, and his jaw seems tighter than usual.

"Did you sleep okay this weekend?" I ask.

He glances down at me, surprised. "Why do you ask?"

"You look tired."

"Perceptive, Sunflower." His smile is soft. "Didn't sleep much, actually. Had a lot on my mind."

"Anything you want to talk about?"

"Nothing important. Just..." He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I don't sleep well when you're not around. The campus feels wrong without you in it."

The admission makes warmth bloom in my chest, even as some distant part of my brain whispers that maybe that's not entirely healthy. But I push the thought away.

He's just being sweet. Dramatic, maybe, but sweet.

"Well, I'm back now," I say, squeezing his arm. "So you can sleep tonight."

"Yes," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice I can't quite identify. "I can."

By the time we reach my dorm building, full dark has fallen. Landon insists on carrying my suitcase all the way to my door, refusing to let me take it even when I protest.

"I have it, Sunflower. Just unlock your door."

I fumble with my keys, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he's standing. I can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell his cologne mixed with something earthier—like rain and expensive soap.

The door swings open, and he carries my suitcase inside, setting it down carefully by my bed.

"There." He turns to face me, and we're standing very close in my small dorm room. "All settled."

"Thank you. For everything. For the watch, for walking me back, for just..." I gesture helplessly. "Being you."

Something flickers across his face—too fast for me to identify. Then he steps closer, one hand coming up to cup my cheek.

"Hazel." His voice is low, almost reverent. "You never have to thank me for taking care of you. It's not a burden. It's a privilege."

Before I can respond, he leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead.

It's gentle. Chaste. The kind of kiss you'd give a younger sister or a cherished friend.

So why does it feel like a brand?

Why does my skin burn where his lips touched, and why can't I breathe properly, and why is my heart racing like I just ran a marathon?

He pulls back, and his smile is warm. Perfect. Completely normal.

"Get some rest, Sunflower. Text me if you need anything."

Then he's gone, closing the door softly behind him, and I'm left standing in the middle of my room with my fingers pressed to my forehead where he kissed me.

It's fine. We're friends. Friends can kiss each other on the forehead.

Right?

I shake off the strange feeling and start unpacking, forcing myself to focus on the mundane task of putting clothes away and organizing my toiletries.

By the time I'm done, it's nearly nine PM. I'm exhausted—that bone-deep tiredness that comes from two days of walking and socializing and being "on" around people.

I take a quick shower, change into my softest pajamas, and climb into bed with my phone.

Several messages are waiting.

Tristan: Heard you're back. Don't let Landon smother you.

Iris: Welcome back! Coffee tomorrow?

Mom: [missed call] [missed call] [missed call]

I delete my mom's notifications without listening to the voicemails. Whatever she wants, it's not going to be good. It never is.

Instead, I text Landon.

Me: Thanks again for meeting me at the station. You didn't have to do that.

The response is immediate.

Landon: Of course I did. Sleep well, Sunflower. I'll see you tomorrow.

I set my phone on the nightstand and burrow under my covers, feeling safe and warm and exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Within minutes, I'm asleep.

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I watch her fall asleep from the shadows of her closet.

I've been here for hours. Since before she got back, actually. Picked the lock on her dorm room door around noon, slipped inside, and made myself comfortable in the corner behind her hanging clothes.

It's not difficult. The closet door doesn't close all the way, leaving a gap just wide enough to see through. And Hazel keeps her room dark when she sleeps—blackout curtains drawn, lights off, the only illumination coming from her phone's screen saver.

Perfect conditions for watching.

I've done this before, of course. Not every night—that would be excessive, even for me. But enough times to have mapped out every inch of her room, to know which floorboards creak and which don't, to understand the rhythm of her sleep.

She doesn't know I have a key to her dorm. Doesn't know I paid the campus locksmith an obscene amount of money to make me a copy and keep his mouth shut. Doesn't know that the "upgraded security system" the university installed in her building last month includes a backdoor that feeds directly to my phone.

She thinks she's safe here.

She is safe here.

Because I'm watching.

I settle into my spot, getting comfortable for the long night ahead. I've gotten good at this—staying perfectly still for hours, controlling my breathing, becoming part of the shadows.

My phone is on silent, tracking app open. Her heartbeat fills my earpiece—slower now, dropping into sleep rhythms.

62 bpm. 59. 58.

Perfect.

I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way her hand curls under her pillow, the way her hair fans out across the pillowcase like spilled ink.

She's dreaming. Her eyes move rapidly beneath her closed lids, and her heart rate spikes slightly—67 bpm—before settling again.

I wonder what she's dreaming about.

I wonder if it's me.

The hours pass slowly. Midnight comes and goes. Her heart rate stays steady between 58 and 62 bpm. Perfectly relaxed. Perfectly safe.

Because I'm here.

Because I'll always be here, whether she knows it or not.

At 1:47 AM, I hear it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Deliberate. Stopping outside her door.

My entire body goes rigid.

Someone's out there.

I watch through the gap in the closet as a shadow passes across the crack under her door. Hear the soft sound of someone testing the doorknob.

Locked.

Good girl.

But the shadow doesn't leave. Instead, I hear a different sound—the metallic scrape of something being inserted into the lock. A lockpick set.

My vision goes red.

Someone is trying to break into her room.

Someone is trying to get to what's mine.

I don't move. Not yet. I need to see who's stupid enough to sign their own death warrant.

The lock clicks. Soft. Almost inaudible.

Then the doorknob turns.

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I wake up to the sound of my door opening.

For a moment, I think I'm dreaming. I locked that door—I always lock it, triple-check it, because the fear of someone getting in is hardwired into my bones from years of living in a house where locked doors meant nothing.

But the sound of hinges creaking is real.

And there's a shape in my doorway.

A man.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Silhouetted against the dim hallway light.

Moving into my room.

Terror slams into me like a physical blow. I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't scream.

I'm frozen against my headboard, clutching my blanket to my chest, every muscle locked tight with the kind of primal fear that overrides rational thought.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

And then he's moving toward me.

"Don't worry," he whispers, and his voice is all wrong—too soft, too eager. "I just want to talk. I've been watching you for weeks. You're so pretty when you think no one's looking."

My mouth opens but no sound comes out. The scream is trapped in my throat, choking me, and I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except press myself harder against the headboard like I can somehow phase through it into safety.

This is it. This is how I die. This is—

The man takes a step into my room.

Then another.

And then something moves in the darkness behind him.

A shadow detaches from the corner—fluid and silent and utterly terrifying.

Landon.

My brain can't process what I'm seeing. Can't make sense of the fact that he's here, in my room, at two in the morning, rising from the shadows like some kind of monster.

But there's no time to think about it because he's already moving.

Silent. Deadly. Efficient.

One moment the intruder is stepping toward my bed. The next, Landon is behind him.

I watch—frozen in horror—as Landon's hands move with surgical precision. One hand grips the man's chin. The other braces against the back of his skull.

Then he twists.

The sound is horrible. A wet crack that echoes in the small space like a gunshot. The man's body goes rigid, then completely limp.

Dead.

Just like that. Between one breath and the next.

Landon releases him, and the body crumples to my dorm room floor like a puppet with cut strings.

I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't process what I just witnessed.

Landon Ashford—my best friend, my safe person, my gentle protector—just killed someone in front of me.

Snapped his neck like it was nothing. Like he's done it before.

Like it was easy.

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The body hits the floor with a satisfying thump.

For a moment, I just stand there, looking down at it. Feeling the familiar rush of satisfaction that comes with eliminating a threat. The static in my head goes quiet—not silent, but manageable—and I can breathe.

Then I remember Hazel.

I look up and find her pressed against her headboard, eyes wide and glazed with shock, her face so pale she looks like she might pass out.

She's staring at the body. At the unnatural angle of the neck. At the dead, glassy eyes fixed on nothing.

She's going to scream.

I move before she can, stepping over the corpse and reaching her in two strides. My hands cup her face, forcing her to look at me instead of the dead man.

"Hazel." My voice is calm. Steady. The same tone I'd use to discuss the weather. "Look at me, Sunflower. Just me."

Her eyes lock onto mine, and I can see the terror there. The confusion. The dawning horror as her brain tries to process what she just witnessed.

"You—" Her voice is barely a whisper. "You just—he's—"

"Shh." I slide onto the bed beside her, gathering her into my arms. She's shaking. Trembling so hard I can feel it through my clothes. "It's okay. You're safe now."

"Safe?" The word comes out as a hysterical laugh. "You just—you killed him—there's a dead body on my floor—"

"I protected you." I press her face into my chest, one hand cradling the back of her head, blocking her view of the corpse. "That's all that matters. He was going to hurt you, Hazel. I couldn't let that happen."

"You were in my room." Her voice is muffled against my shirt, but I can hear the realization dawning. "You were already here. In the dark. Watching me."

Fuck.

"I was protecting you," I correct gently, stroking her hair with careful, measured movements. "I needed to make sure you were safe."

"That's not—that's not normal—" She's starting to hyperventilate, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "You killed him. You were hiding in my room. You—"

"Shh, Sunflower." I tighten my grip, holding her against me even as she tries to pull away. "You're in shock. You're not thinking clearly."

"I'm thinking perfectly clearly!" Her voice is rising toward panic. "There's a dead man on my floor and you—you just—how could you—"

I need to stop this. Need to redirect her thoughts before she starts screaming, before she does something that will complicate everything.

"Hazel." I tip her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Listen to me very carefully. You're having a night terror. Do you understand? A panic attack triggered by stress and exhaustion."

"No—"

"Yes." My voice is firm now. Commanding. The same tone I use when I need to control a situation. "You had a nightmare. A very vivid, very frightening nightmare. But it wasn't real."

"I can see him—"

"You're still dreaming, sweetheart. I promise you." I stroke her hair again, feeling her pulse racing beneath my fingers. "There's no body on the floor. It's just you and me. I came to check on you because I heard you crying out."

She blinks at me, confusion replacing some of the terror. "But I saw—"

"A nightmare." I lean forward and press my lips to her forehead—a gesture of comfort, of safety. "You've been through a lot. The stress of traveling, being away from your safe space. Your mind is playing tricks on you."

I can see her wavering. Can see the doubt creeping in. She wants to believe me. Wants desperately to believe that what she saw wasn't real, that I'm still the person she thinks I am.

Good.

"I need you to trust me, Hazel." I cup her face again, making sure she's looking directly into my eyes. "Can you do that? Can you trust that I would never let anything bad happen to you?"

"I..." Her eyes flick toward the floor, toward the body.

I physically turn her head back to face me. "Don't look at it. Look at me. Only me."

"Landon, I—"

"Do you trust me?"

The question hangs in the air between us. I can see her mind working, trying to reconcile what she saw with what she knows about me. The cognitive dissonance is beautiful to watch.

Finally, she nods. Small. Uncertain.

But it's enough.

"Good girl." I release her face and reach for the water bottle on her nightstand. "You need to calm down. Your heart is racing. Here—drink this."

I unscrew the cap and press the bottle to her lips. She takes it automatically, too shocked to question, and drinks.

She doesn't taste the sedative I crushed into it three hours ago, when I first arrived.

I've been carrying it for weeks, just in case. Just in case she ever saw something she shouldn't. Just in case I needed to make her forget, to buy myself time to clean up my mess.

Just in case.

She drains half the bottle before I pull it away.

"Good," I murmur, stroking her hair. "That's good. Just breathe, Sunflower. Everything's going to be fine."

Her eyelids are already starting to droop. The sedative works fast—I made sure of that.

"Landon..." Her voice is slurred now, confused. "I don't feel..."

"It's okay. You're just tired. Exhausted from your trip. You need to sleep."

"But the man—"

"There is no man." I lay her back against her pillows, smoothing her hair away from her face with infinite gentleness. "There's never been a man. Just you and me. Just your best friend making sure you're safe."

Her eyes are closing now, fluttering as she fights against the drug pulling her under.

"I would never let the monsters touch you," I whisper, pressing another kiss to her forehead. "Because I've already killed them all."

Her breathing evens out. Deepens. And then she's unconscious.

I sit there for a moment, just watching her sleep. She looks so peaceful now. So trusting.

She has no idea how close she came to seeing the real me.

But it's fine. The drug will affect her memory—nothing major, just enough to make her question what she saw. To make it feel dreamlike and unreal. By tomorrow, she'll convince herself it was just a nightmare. A stress-induced hallucination.

And I'll be there to confirm it. To reassure her. To keep her safe in her beautiful glass box.

I finally stand and turn to look at the body on the floor.

Campus stalker. I've been watching him for three days, ever since I noticed him following her to the library. Noticed the way he lingered outside her dorm. Noticed the lockpicking kit he bought online.

He was going to hurt her. Eventually.

So I made sure he couldn't.

I crouch down and check his pockets. Student ID—Thomas Brennan, sophomore, business major. Phone, wallet, keys. I pocket all of it.

Then I grab him by the ankles and start dragging him toward the door.

The body is heavy, but I'm used to this. I've done it before. Will probably do it again.

I crack the door open and check the hallway. Empty. The scholarship dorms don't have cameras in the hallways—budget constraints, which works in my favor.

I drag him down the hall, down the back stairs, out through the maintenance exit that I know doesn't have a working camera. My car is parked behind the building, trunk already open.

He goes in with the kind of efficiency that comes from practice.

I'll dump him in the woods outside town. Make it look like he went hiking and had an accident. Happens all the time.

By the time I get back to her room, it's 3:15 AM.

The blood is minimal—just a small smear where his head hit the floor. I clean it up with bleach wipes, then vacuum the carpet to eliminate any trace evidence.

Then I return to my spot in the closet.

And I watch her sleep.

She's curled on her side now, one hand tucked under her cheek, her breathing deep and even. The sedative will keep her under for another few hours at least.

I pull out my phone and check the tracking app.

Pink dot. Her room. Exactly where she should be.

Heartbeat: 54 bpm. Deep sleep.

Perfect.

I put the earpiece back in and listen to her pulse, letting it soothe the violence still thrumming through my veins.

The Golden Prince is dead. Has been dead for a while now, I think. Killed and buried beneath layers of blood and obsession and a love so consuming it's eaten me alive from the inside out.

What's left is just the beast.

And the beast has locked the cage.

She's mine. Completely, irrevocably, unquestionably mine.

She just doesn't know it yet.

But she will.

Eventually, she'll understand that everything I do—every body I bury, every stalker I eliminate, every breath I take—is for her.

Because she is my silence. My salvation. My religion.

And I am a zealot who will slaughter anyone who threatens his god.

I settle back into the shadows and close my eyes, letting her heartbeat lull me into something resembling peace.

Tomorrow, she'll wake up convinced it was all a nightmare. I'll comfort her. Reassure her. Make her believe that she's safe.

And she will be safe.

Because I'll be watching.

Always watching.

From the shadows. From the corners. From the spaces she doesn't know to look.

Until she realizes the truth.

That the real monster was never outside her door.

He was already inside.

Waiting.