How she didn’t take up space the way I expected her to. How she folded into my world like she was always meant to be there. The way she hummed while she read that pregnancy book I got her, completely unaware I was watching.

The way she rolled her eyes at me but still reached for the toast I made her. The way my name sounded softer when she was half-asleep, mumbled through exhaustion.

And that’s probably a problem.

But not one I’m willing to fix.

By the time I head upstairs, the apartment is quiet.

I knock once, then let myself in. I don’t ask permission. I don’t wait.

She’s standing by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the street below.

Something about her posture makes my stomach tighten. I know that stance. She’s probably cataloging details, memorizing exits, mapping out a way to disappear.

She’s thinking about running, even if she’s not ready to run. I lean against the counter, watching her carefully.

“Something interesting out there?”

She stiffens slightly, then turns. Her face is unreadable, carefully blank, but her eyes—her eyes give her away.

She’s not just looking. She’s searching. For an escape. For a threat. I push the phone box across the kitchen counter toward her. No preamble. No explanation.

She blinks at it. Then at me.

“What’s this?”

“A phone.”

“I can see that.” She narrows her eyes. “Why?”

“So I don’t lose my fucking mind when I can’t find you.”

Her lips part slightly, caught off guard, but then she recovers fast, shaking her head. “I don’t need it.”

“Yeah, you do.”

She exhales through her nose, crossing her arms tighter, defensive. “I’ve gone this long without one.”

“You didn’t have me watching your back before.”

That makes her pause, but I don’t stop.

“And maybe you don’t need it,” I add, voice calmer now, “but I need you to have it. It’s for my peace of mind.”

Her mouth snaps shut, but the frustration in her eyes is clear.

“This gives you a little more freedom,” I say, leveling my tone. “Say you’re at a bookstore, and if I need to reach you, I can call. I don’t have to be there.”

She studies me, like she’s trying to decide if this is control or actually freedom. I don’t know how to convince her she needs it.

But I do know what she hates—being watched. Being tracked. Feeling like she’s still a possession instead of a person.

She’s looking at this phone and seeing a leash. I take a slow step toward her. Then another.

Close enough to see the way her breath catches. The way her pulse jumps at the base of her throat.

Fuck.

I shouldn’t be standing this close.