I had a restless night, didn’t sleep much. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. On his knees, shaking, crying. Looking at me like I'd ripped something open in him.
It should've made me feel powerful, triumphant, maybe even safe. It didn't.
I kept replaying the moment in my head, trying to decide if I'd meant what I said, what I did. I wanted to hurt him, to make him feel even an ounce of what he'd done to me. But now that I had, there was no victory.
He'd melted into that kiss, despite the surprise of me initiating it. He'd cracked right open like I'd stabbed him. He didn't even breathe through it. And when it was done, he pulled away looking like he didn't know who I was anymore.
And I didn't know either.
He looked so afraid . Not of me, I don’t think, but of something in me. Something he wasn't expecting and couldn't control.
Part of me wanted to see him again, to look him in the eyes and see if that fear was still there. The other part of me was terrified he'd come back and tear me apart for it, punish me, reassert control.
So, when the door opened the next morning and I saw his silhouette in the frame, cigarette burning between his fingers, I was surprised.
He didn't knock. There was no warning. He leaned against the doorframe like he was too tired to keep upright.
Dishevelled appearance, bloodshot eyes, shirt was wrinkled like he'd slept in it — if he'd even slept at all. The sharp, polished version of Tyler was gone. This one was frayed at the edges, thin and wired.
I knew I had to be careful this time. One word too many and he'd withdraw completely.
He didn't say anything for a while. Just stood there, smoking, watching me.
I sat up, and eventually, I spoke.
"Didn't think you'd show your face today."
The cigarette flared when he inhaled. He took a few slow steps into the room, gaze on the floor. Then he turned his back, walked to the counter, and stubbed out the cigarette in the sink.
He stayed like that for ten long, confusing minutes — not speaking, hands braced on the edge of the sink, breathing slowly. I wondered what was going on in his head. What had made him like this?
Just when I thought he might leave again, he finally said something, his voice quiet and raw.
"I'm sorry."
Two simple words, yet they hit me like a freight train. An apology... from Tyler?
I opened my mouth to say something — anything — but I didn't know what to say. Was he apologising for treating me like shit? Or for his emotional outburst?
I studied him for a while. For all the things he was — brutal, calculating, dangerous — this version of him, silent and wrecked, was harder to face. He hadn't turned around, but his posture said everything. The sink had become some kind of shield, a wall to press against so he wouldn't fold.
It was an apology, yes, but I didn't trust it. Not because I thought he was lying, but because I wasn't sure he understood what an apology like that meant. Or what it cost. Or even what he was apologising for. Maybe it hurt him just to say the words aloud, maybe it was practice for something he wasn't ready to do properly.
I bit the inside of my lip. I had so many questions that I couldn't voice. Not with him like this.
Slowly, I slipped off the edge of the table and stood. I felt my feet touch the ground to focus myself. Of course he heard me move — still didn't look at me. So I filled the silence, instead.
"Why now?"
He shifted slightly, shoulders tensing.
"I don't know," he muttered. He sounded hollow. Empty, like I'd somehow scooped out all the cruelty. That was all he said. No grand explanation.
Something twisted in my chest — sympathy, or guilt, or maybe just confusion.
He sighed heavily. "You shouldn't have said what you said."
I swallowed. "Which part?"
"Does it matter?"
I waited, trying to keep calm. I didn't know if I wanted to soothe him or push him again, or if I could do either without breaking him further.
"You think I'm afraid of you," he said, almost to himself.
"You are."
"No," he whispered, hands clenching into fists. "I'm afraid of what you make me feel ."
Finally, he turned around and looked at me — tired, dark eyes — and sighed. His stare wasn’t the cold, unreadable thing I'd gotten so used to, but something desperate now. Defensive still, but barely holding.
His gaze dropped to his feet, hands still braced on the counter behind him. Then he started talking, properly this time.
"I had control," he said, voice cracking, full of self-loathing. "Even when I didn't — I told myself I did. That if I kept the rules clear enough, strict enough, I wouldn't cross any lines I couldn't uncross."
I stared at him.
"Now I've crossed so many lines I can't see where they started."
I wanted to look away, but I couldn't.
"I told myself this wasn't real," he whispered. "That it was just part of the system. That you'd hate me and fight me, try to kill me, and I'd win, and it would be... predictable. But you didn't stay in the lines, Emily."
His voice changed, bitterness creeping in around the edges. "You got under my skin."
"… And now I don't know what the fuck I'm doing anymore."
I didn't dare move. He looked like a man clinging to the last shreds of sanity. He glared at me, his voice was so low it was nearly lost in the hum of the lights.
"Don't do that again."
I blinked. "Do what?"
"What you did yesterday."
He walked to the chair across from me and sat, slumped.
I watched him in silence, heart thudding. There was a noticeable tremble in his fingers as he lit another cigarette.
The click of the lighter was sharp in the stillness. The flame flared, caught, then died. A curl of smoke rose and caught the harsh ceiling light like fog, settling into the corners of the room. It sizzled as he took a drag, then exhaled slowly.
The room smelled like ash and burnt paper — sharp and stale, yet at the same time, comforting. I was never a smoker myself, but I'd grown up around people who had — my ex, my stepdad, and uncles. Now Tyler.
I also understood what it meant.
He didn't look at me. The silence stretched long, but not empty. Not dead. His foot tapped anxiously on the concrete floor. His other hand rubbed over the inside of his wrist, thumb gliding back and forth over a scar I'd noticed weeks ago.
I shifted, restless in the thick air. The cigarette crackled softly when he drew from it again, and I watched his fingers tremble around the filter. He held the smoke in too long, then exhaled and coughed like it hurt — like he didn't want to let it go.
I didn't know what to do.
Keeping my eyes on him, I crawled back onto the table, the metal groaning under my weight. It was cold through my clothes. I tucked my legs beneath me, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight. A little smaller. A little safer.
His eyes flicked to me at the movement — just for a second — before they dropped again, his free hand running up through his hair, tugging slightly at the roots like he could scratch something loose from his skull. Then back down, raking the stubble on his jaw.
Then, as if the words had been building in him all morning, he said—
"That night in the club... It wasn't random."
My stomach twisted.
He didn't lift his eyes, just stared at the burnt-out cigarette like it was the only thing anchoring him.
"I'd been watching you. Weeks before that night. Longer, maybe. I don't know. It's... blurry."
His voice stayed flat, void, quiet.
I felt sick at the revelation.
"I didn't plan to take you, at first. I just—" he broke off, jaw tight. "You... reminded me of someone."
His voice strained on the last word.
Her.
That shadow he kept circling. That name he wouldn't say.
I felt the air leave my lungs and I couldn't help myself. I asked the question. "Who is she?"
He finally looked at me — and for a second, I thought he might tell me. But instead, he blinked slowly, eyes red-rimmed and tired.
"I'm not ready for that," he shook his head.
He took a final drag from the cigarette, dragging the last bit of tobacco from it like he didn't want it to end yet. The tip glowed red. Then, he continued.
"I followed you after work once. Sat opposite your house in my car. I knew your route to uni, which bus you took, which café you liked…"
My blood ran cold.
"You were so fucking normal," he said bitterly. "So stupidly kind and naïve. And when I saw you laugh, I thought... maybe I was making a big mistake. Maybe you weren't like her. Maybe I could leave you alone."
He laughed, soft and broken, like he knew how pathetic it sounded.
"But I didn't. I had to take you... Thought I could..." but he cut himself off.
Silence fell again. I was trying to breathe through the ringing in my ears.
He dropped the cigarette into the sink behind him, still smouldering.
"But... you're not her," he muttered. "You're nothing like her, and exactly like her, all at once. I don't know what to do with that."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't.
His words lingered — heavy, toxic, slow to leave. That he hadn't picked me at random. Nothing about it was accidental. He'd stalked me. Memorised me like a blueprint. And yet... he looked like he regretted every second of it.
I should've screamed. Should've thrown something. Should've told him how sick it all sounded. But the part of me that wanted to rage was drowning under the part that just wanted to understand.
Why me?
Why her ?
Why the hell couldn't he separate us?
I opened my mouth again, but the question caught in my throat. Because deep down, I already knew the answer: I reminded him of someone he couldn't save. Or someone who couldn't save him . And now, I was his second chance, or his second failure.
He ran his thumb over that scar again. I wanted to ask what it meant. The scar. The girl. The surveillance. The choices.
But he was already retreating again. I could tell. Not physically, but I could feel it in the way he leaned back, spine stiffening, eyes darkening like a door slamming shut from the inside.
Whatever little crack I'd slipped through yesterday, it was now closing.
And then he stood.
The chair scraped against the floor, jarring in the quiet. I flinched. He didn't look at me again. He just straightened his sleeves with mechanical precision and walked to the door like none of it had happened.
His hand hovered over the handle, and for a moment, I thought he might turn back. Apologise again. Stay.
But the door clicked shut behind him.
And I was left staring at the empty chair across from me, heartbeat hammering in my ears, trying to piece together what just happened, what he said.
More importantly, who she was, and who I was becoming in her absence.