“mornin’.”

you startle when you feel arms wrap around you, tight despite the tired drawl to his voice when he rests his chin on your shoulder. (he always held you like that, like a predator keeping his prey from running ─ and then you scoff and tell yourself that's a ridiculous thought.)

“coulda slept in, y’know?” his voice is still thick from just waking, and it makes your stomach churn in a way that you almost think you might've accidentally put something else in your tea. he has stayed many nights at your apartment, waking up next to you, and yet his morning voice just as he rose from sleep always managed to get you right back to being wrapped around his finger.

you tilt your head, attempting to peek at his face on your shoulder when you reply, “couldn't fall back to sleep,” ─ you hold up your cup of still warm tea, taking a sip as you do, ─ “thought i’d make myself some morning tea.”

he hums, removing one of his arms from your waist to grab the mug from you, and you let him sip from your tea, despite knowing he could very well make his own. when he gives it back to you, he returns to holding you, caging you against the counter and giving you no room to try and escape from him, but you had no plans to (even if you did, you knew it would be futile).

“don't you got that meeting with your professor today?” he asks, and something twists in your chest, ugly and heavy.

you blink down at the mug in your hand, as if trying to understand what he just asked you. you manage to mutter out a hesitant, “i don't remember mentioning that.”

he's quiet behind you for a moment, something that makes the feeling in your chest heavier, and his arms seem to get tighter around you as he buries his face in your neck and plants a kiss to the skin not hidden under your ─ his, shirt.

“you said somethin’ about it last night, were ya really so tired you don't remember?” he says it so casually, you find it hard not to believe him. (but some part of you knows that can't be right; you don't think classes and work has exhausted you that much. you don't remember telling him about that meeting you had with your professor about a recent assignment they gave you.)

but it's not the first time something like this has happened ─ no, you can count every moment, recall every topic perfectly, about situations just like this one. ─ where he knew things you're unsure how he could, asked questions you hadn't even given him prompt to ask, and he always brushed it off, found something to excuse it; “you said somethin’ about it,” or “heard you mumblin’ while you were getting ready” ─ it would always immediately get turned back to you.

you suck in a breath, holding the cooling cup of tea to your lips while you try to shrug your shoulders in something unaffected, and you agree with him, because that's what you always do, “right, i guess so.”

you play along — that's all you ever do.

some part of you knew that he was lying to you ─ that every word of his was something stretched and twisted and made up to sell a story that didn't actually happen.

when you asked about his job, he told you he worked for a man with wealth and fame to his name, but when you asked who, he shrugged and said he wasn't allowed to say. he'd come back late, smelling of bleach and something metallic, with a heaviness to his shoulders and a grin on his face that always made you hesitant to approach. ─ “busy day at work”, he'd say when he saw you staring, and you'd nod and smile, even when something in your stomach twisted.

you'd often wonder if he was telling the truth about anything ─ if he was who he says he is. but when those thoughts surface, they don't stay for long, because you always swat them away, tell yourself that's stupid to think. the hopeful part of you, the one taken by his charm and his you're the only one attitude, wants to believe he is the person you've come to know. (but that logical part of you, the one that knows something isn't right, lingers, sits at the back of your thoughts for you to always go back to when your skin crawls with questions.)

you think it's your phone at first, even though you don't recognize the ringtone, you almost believe you set an alarm you don't remember. but then you glance into the living room and see his phone screen up on the coffee table, ringing insistently with the name boss flashing with every vibration. you stare at it for a moment when it goes silent, and then it rings again.

your brows furrow as you approach the device, yelling through your apartment, “bailey! your phone!”

you lean down to grab it, not to answer, only to take it him, but before your fingers can even brush the screen, a hand is on your waist, and the phone is snatched away. you startle, glancing up at him as he leans over, the expression on his face something serious when he glances at you before turning away, swiping a thumb across the screen as the phone continues to ring his hand. you catch him greeting the person on the other line with “here, boss”, before he disappears down the hall and into the bathroom, quieting his voice in a way that made it obvious he didn't want you to hear.

you remain standing next to the coffee table, staring down the hallway, and hearing the faintest sound of his voice, yet you're unable to discern any words. you don't move close to hear, you only turn back to what'd you been doing before then. ─ he always said he couldn't talk about his job, how his employer valued his privacy, so of course it made sense that he didn't want you to talk his boss, even if you had no intention on answering the call to begin with. (you tell yourself that, but the feeling of unease settles and prods, like your gut is trying to tell you something you refuse to listen to.)

you never wanted to admit the truth ─ that some part of you was scared of him. that his odd comments, his secrecy, often lead your mind down places you didn't want to be in, and sometimes those thoughts actually made sense; they didn't feel like fantasy your mind made up because you were anxious, they started to feel real, right.

sometimes you think about confronting him ─ asking him about what he was up to when he left at night when he thought you were asleep, or why he kept a black suit tucked away in the back of your closet where you don't normally look. you wanted to ask how he knew things even you didn't know, when he texted you at the right moment telling you where to find something you lost despite him not being around. (he once texted you while you were looking for a notebook for one of your classes, you spent a week glancing at corners, as if there were cameras everywhere; you never did find any.)

you wanted to prod, get answers for all the questions you had, but you never did. you were too scared, too comfortable with the life you lived with him, even when it became increasingly more clear that life was built off lies.

even when everything seemed wrong.

it's late, your phone reading a steady 3:45 am when you tilt it to glance at the screen through squinting eyes. you groan, stuffing your face into your pillow, wondering why you're even awake right now. your arm spreads out beside you, but you pause when your hand only meets empty sheets, blanket pulled back, and where he had been lying beginning to go cold.

you sit up, rubbing at your eye as you look beside you to confirm he really wasn't there, and likely hadn't been for a moment now.

you glance around your bedroom while your brain catches up to you. you notice your bedroom door cracked open just enough for the hallway light to come through, and only then do you finally hear the sound of his voice, somewhere else in the apartment. you can't make out what he's saying, but you recognize him, and then another voice joins him, deeper, more controlled, and something in your stomach drops.

you don't realize you've pulled the blankets back and have climbed out of bed until your bare feet meet the cold floor just past your carpet. you hesitate at your door, peeking into the hall, and trying to catch what was being said. you wonder for a moment if you made up the second voice, but whoever it is speaks again, and you feel a coldness underneath your skin when you hear them.

you catch some words, boss, value, views, but no full sentences, not when their words cross with each other, and your thoughts are still laced with sleep.

you think to go back to bed, to pretend you didn't wake, that you didn't hear even the few words you did ─ go back to being the compliant partner you are.

you decide not to do that.

you open the door slowly, and you know they hear the worn hinges squeak when their voices go quiet. you don't try to pretend you're not awake, and as you're halfway down the hall just about to enter the living room shared kitchen, you call out to him softly; “bailey?”

as you enter the space, you pause; he's standing at the front door to your apartment, looking back at you with something restrained in his expression. but that's not what stopped you from approaching, rather the man next to him: taller, broader, and who you can assume was the owner of the deep voice you heard. ─ he's the type of person you'd see in public and immediately turn the other way, intimidated by his straight posture and harsh physique. but you can't avoid him now, not when he's standing in your apartment, staring right at you with a sharp expression that makes you feel even worse with unease.

bailey finally steps away from his guest, approaching you with his same charming smile you were used to, “hey, babe, why are you up? you should be asleep, you got that early class, remember?”

his hands find your waist, and you look up at him, brows furrowed, “who..?” ─ you don't finish the question, glancing between the man at your door and your boyfriend.

“just some really important work stuff that couldn't wait," he says, casually, as if that was a good explanation for the intimidating man in your apartment (you didn't think it was), “you should go back to bed.”

“but, what─” you can't find the words you wants to say, not when you can feel the strangers heavy stare burning holes into your face, and your boyfriends hands on your waist, growing tighter with every second you remained in front of him instead of turning to go back to your room.

“like i said, it’s nothin’,” he attempts to brush it off again, he glancing over his shoulder.

the stranger moves, finally, stepping back to grab the knob to your front door. when he talks, he sounds nothing like your boyfriend, and it unsettles you even more.

“call me tomorrow, early.”

he doesn't leave any room for argument, already stepping out of the apartment and closing the door behind him.

you're staring at bailey, hoping for some form of explanation; but, just as something in you had expected, he doesn't give you one. instead you only get another smile, and his hands turning you back towards the hallway, nudging the middle of your back as he tries to coax you back to the bedroom.

“let's go to bed, okay?”

you want to argue, to finally get answers; you know you should probably push. but you didn't, you only comply, letting him guide you back to bed as if you weren't wondering why nothing made sense anymore.