Mary Louise Emerson

Monday. Xander never comes on Monday.

Not once in the past four weeks has he deviated from their pattern.

Thursday. Sunday. Those are the nights he sits on that rooftop, cloaked in darkness, playing their silent game.

Alaura feels his presence the moment she steps into her building, returning home later than usual from the gym. Not expecting anything but a quiet evening. Certainly not him.

But here he is, sitting in the exact same place as always, his declaration radiating across the narrow stretch between the two buildings.

As she enters her apartment, she buries that spark of surprise with the same practiced control she uses to bury every other unwanted emotion. But she knows he feels it. The same way she feels that smug half curve in his smile, the pleasure he takes in catching her off guard.

Ignoring him, she goes about her night, as if his uncharacteristic appearance hasn’t thrown her off schedule. Because that’s how this game is played.

Both pretending they have control.

Alaura sets her gym bag by the door and nudges off her shoes, then walks toward the kitchen. A quick dinner—grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, taking her time cooking. She eats at the kitchen island, scrolling through her laptop, not letting his insistent presence draw her attention.

Afterward, the shower steams up the bathroom, the hot water working out the tension in her muscles, washing away the long day. When she steps back into view, she’s dressed simple—a loose T-shirt and comfortable pants, nothing revealing, nothing teasing. An intentional contrast to the night before.

She’s not going to reward his bold move with another one of her displays. Instead, she tucks herself onto the couch with a new book, completely immersed in the words, disregarding the burn of his stare.

Later that evening, just as she’s about to head to bed, her next move hits her. A shift in the game.

Slowly placing her bookmark between the pages, she closes her novel, ready to call it a night. With a casual dismissal of the evening, she moves through her usual bedtime routine, giving no indication of what she’s about to do.

Crossing the living space, she crouches near the fireplace. The soft scratch of a match fills the silence before flames leap to life, the warmth chasing the chill from the room.

She heads to the glass door that leads to the balcony, blending seamlessly into the wall of windows. Hand resting on the handle, she lifts her gaze towards the rooftop and gives him an utterly confident smile.

With a slow pull, the door cracks open, as if giving him a silent invitation for a closer view.

The cold night air drifts in, tangling with the heat from the fire. Winter has finally settled over Luxen, bringing the kind of chill that lingers after dusk—cold enough for breath to fog glass, but never cold enough to bring snow.

One by one, she clicks the lights off until only the fire remains, then slips into bed, sliding beneath the sheets.

Leaving him with one question—Will he accept?

Xander sits on that rooftop for hours.

His usual stillness is strained tonight. Logic urging him to keep his distance, but a yearning keeps dragging his thoughts back to her. The look she gave as she cracked open the door, how her emotions dared him to come closer.

It’s all intentional, a subtle challenge.

He should leave, walk away. This is dangerous. Letting this go further—whatever this is between them—is a mistake.

But the way she smiled at him, gave him a sliver of possibility, then walked away like she knows he’s going to take it.

She played her move. And she played it well.

Now, he will make his.

Xander takes a step back, then another, giving himself just enough space to gather momentum. He breaks into a run, a silent burst of speed, his body cutting through the air unnaturally, too precise, too fluid for any human frame.

With a leap, he clears the distance between the two buildings, feet touching down on her balcony seconds later without a sound. Not a scuff, a scrape, not even a whisper of impact. As if he’s nothing but a breeze slipping through the night.

Straightening, he adjusts his cufflinks, smoothing the dark fabric back into place. His eyes trace the black brick that wraps around the windows, framing the sliding door that stands between him and her.

The first time he walked her home, the building… hummed. A low, almost imperceptible pulse of energy, throbbing beneath the surface of the walls like a living thing, sending out a warning. A clear command to stay away.

Even from the rooftop he could still feel it.

But here—now at the threshold, with the balcony beneath his feet and her world within reach—nothing. The hum is nonexistent, the pulse silent.

Xander turns his attention to the door. Slightly cracked. Just enough to expose her world.

With a slow, controlled movement, he glides his fingers through the narrow crack. Pressing his palm against the glass edge, he eases it further open without a sound.

The door slides open an inch.

Then another.

Until there’s nothing but air between him and the woman who has somehow, without ever meaning to, made him forget why he’s not supposed to get this close.

Logic abandoned, Xander crosses the threshold. A shadow, nothing more.

For a moment, he simply stands there, eyes closed, focusing on her presence. The apartment remains perfectly still, as if aware something impossible has entered.

But it’s not the apartment that calls to him.

It’s her.

That gravitational force that’s been there from the very beginning.

—Alaura.

After nights of watching from the outside, of holding himself back, there’s no distance. Close enough now that he can feel her heartbeat, soft and steady, a drumbeat in the silence.

He reaches out, not for her waking thoughts, but her dreams. The space where her consciousness drifts, where the defenses she so carefully maintains dissolve. A simple brush at first, like smoke seeping through cracks in stone, he slips into the corners of her mind, unnoticed.

And then he feels it.

Not a dream. A nightmare.

Coiling deep, wrapping around the fragile parts of her inner world. A shrill, dark thing with black glass-like jagged edges. The occurrence familiar—as though it has visited her many times before. It’s not fresh fear, not the piercing shock of something new.

It’s old terror, something she carried for years, something that has settled into her bones long before the night at the club.

Xander’s jaw tightens, the tension thrumming through his body, forcing his eyes open, every impulse urging him closer.

If he stays—if he lets himself reach deeper, he’ll pull her from that nightmare and soothe it away.

Quickly, he steps back, retreating to the outside. The cold night air reminding him where the boundaries lie. He pulls the door shut with a faint click, the sound nearly lost beneath the distant activity of the city below.

Leaping off the balcony, he disappears into the night.