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SAINT // 2

villain!hollis x fem!reader

about: saint murdered your fiancé. now the police are watching you just as closely as the man they're trying to catch. the closer the investigation gets to saint, the closer you get to him. the hardest part won't be hiding him from the police.

it'll be hiding him from yourself.

⠀

-

⠀

the apartment felt frozen in time. gray walls. gray skies. gray light spilling through the windows. outside, rain traced slow paths down the glass. inside, nothing moved at all.

you sat curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket you hadn't really left in days. your phone lay facedown beside you. silent now. eventually, people stopped calling.

⠀

grief was strange

⠀

sometimes it arrived all at once. sometimes it simply sat beside you. you couldn't tell how many days had passed anymore. or when the pain had quietly turned into something else. into nothing. no more tears. no more anger. no more strength.

just an emptiness so complete that it almost felt peaceful. you didn't wonder when life would start feeling normal again. because normal meant accepting what had happened.

accepting that your fiancé was dead. accepting that he wasn't coming back. accepting that it never had to happen. because if you had left saint alone, if you had ignored every note, if you had stopped looking for him... maybe he would still be alive.

and yet, despite the emptiness, the same thoughts returned every single day. the same accusations. the same unbearable truth.

he had been murdered. and you knew exactly who had done it.

the man you had once admired from afar. the man you should have feared. the man who had warned you again and again to stay away.

instead you'd done the opposite. one step closer. then another. until he'd found his way into your apartment. into your life. into the bed you once shared with another man.

you'd known it was wrong from the very beginning. every note. every conversation. every stolen moment. somewhere deep down, you'd known exactly where it would lead.

you just never thought the price would be his life.

⠀

-

⠀

grief had allowed you to disappear for days. but there was no avoiding today. today was the funeral.

the first time you'd left the apartment since his death. the first time you'd have to face a world that kept moving without him. outside, there was no sunlight. only rain.

you stood in front of the bathroom mirror. completely still. staring at a reflection that barely looked like you anymore.

your skin looked pale, your eyes swollen. dark shadows resting underneath them no amount of concealer could hide. you had tried anyway. not because you cared what you looked like but because people would be looking at you today.

the grieving fiancée - the woman who had lost the man she was supposed to marry.

you lowered your gaze toward the sink. makeup scattered across the counter. foundation. mascara. a lipstick you'd picked up and put back down three times already. none of it felt right. nothing felt right.

behind you, the bedroom stood untouched. the sheets still unmade. his side of the wardrobe still full. shirts hanging exactly where he'd left them. shoes lined up beneath them. a jacket thrown carelessly across the chair. everything waiting for someone who would never come home.

slowly you turned away from the mirror and walked back into the bedroom. the black dress lay across the bed. simple. long sleeved. appropriate. you hated it.

you hated that there were clothes made for days like this. hated that black had somehow become the color people wore when somebody stopped existing. hated that the world had rules for grief.

wear this. stand there. accept flowers. say thank you. survive.

you pulled the dress over your head. the fabric settled against your body. you stood in front of the mirror again. smoothing your hands across the material. trying to recognize the person staring back at you. you couldn't.

your gaze fell toward your left hand. the ring was still there. white gold. beautiful. clean. untouched by everything that had happened.

for a long moment you simply stared at it. you had tried taking it off the night before. you'd stood in the same bathroom. fingers wrapped around the band. twisting it slowly. pulling until it reached your knuckle, then you'd stopped.

because the second it moved, panic had filled your chest. as if removing it would make everything final. as if the ring was the last thing keeping him connected to this world. as long as it remained on your finger, some part of the future still existed.

all the things you'd once thought would last forever. all the things you'd complained about. all the things you would have given anything to have back. your thumb brushed across the smooth metal. once. then again.

"i'm sorry."

the words barely reached the empty room. you weren't sure who you were saying them to anymore. him. yourself. you looked away from your reflection. the ring stayed where it was.

⠀

-

⠀

the drive to the cemetery passed in silence. rain tapped steadily against the car windows.

the city moved outside in muted colors. gray buildings. blurred lights. strangers walking beneath umbrellas. strangers checking their phones. people living.

the sight of it made something bitter twist inside you. how could everything continue? how could traffic lights still change? how could shops still open? how could people complain about being late or wet or tired when he was dead?

the car slowed near the cemetery gates. black vehicles lined the road ahead. people stepped out one by one, umbrellas opening above them.

your stomach dropped. for days his death had existed only inside the apartment but now it was real in a different way. there were people here. dozens of them.

people who had known him before you. people who had grown up with him. people who had loved him in ways that had nothing to do with you.

you opened the car door. cold rain immediately touched your face. someone appeared beside you with an umbrella. you didn't look to see who. you simply let them guide you toward the others.

every step felt too heavy. your heels sank slightly into the wet ground. mud gathering along the edges. the cemetery stretching out around you beneath the dark sky. rows of stones. rows of names. rows of people reduced to dates. you tried not to look at them.

then you saw his family. his mother stood beneath a large black umbrella. held upright by someone beside her because both of her hands were pressed against her mouth. she looked smaller than you remembered. older. destroyed.

her shoulders shook with every breath. a woman you barely recognized kept one arm wrapped around her waist, holding her upright. his father stood close beside them. completely still.

his face looked blank from a distance. almost calm. until you noticed the way his jaw trembled. the way his hands opened and closed at his sides. the way he kept staring toward the coffin as if he still hadn't understood what it was.

his younger sister stood between them. eyes red. skin pale. one hand gripping their father's coat like a child.

you stopped walking. everything inside you seemed to collapse at once. because you had spent days thinking about what saint had taken from you: your fiancé, your future, your home.

but seeing them made you understand the rest of it. he hadn't only taken someone from you.

he had taken a son. a brother. a childhood best friend. a colleague. a person people called when their car broke down. a person who remembered birthdays. a person who had existed in a hundred different lives before yours.. and you had led saint directly to him.

your knees weakened. someone touched your arm. gently. encouraging you forward. you wanted to turn around. you wanted to run back to the apartment. lock the door. crawl beneath the blanket. disappear into the emptiness again.

instead you kept walking. his mother saw you first. her face changed. the grief somehow deepening. then she moved toward you. you barely had time to react before her arms wrapped around your body. tight. desperate.

a broken sound left her. somewhere between your name and a sob. for one horrible second, you couldn't hug her back. because she didn't know. she thought you were grieving beside her. she thought you were another victim of what had happened.

she didn't know that her son's murderer had stood in your kitchen. that he had touched you. kissed you. held you. that you'd let him into the bed her son had once slept in.

your stomach turned. finally your arms lifted around her. she clung to you harder. "i'm so sorry y/n." she whispered. you closed your eyes. the words tore through you.

she was sorry. she was comforting you. you should have been on your knees begging her forgiveness. instead you held her while she cried.

"i'm so sorry." you whispered back. your voice cracked. she misunderstood. she pulled away just enough to look at you. both hands finding your face. her eyes moving across it like she was searching for a piece of him somewhere in you.

"he loved you so much."

your breath stopped. the rain continued around you. tapping against the umbrella. sliding down the edges. he loved you so much. you tried to answer. nothing came out. her gaze dropped toward your hand. toward the white gold ring.

something shattered across her expression. she touched it carefully. one trembling finger brushing the band. "he was so excited." you swallowed. "about the wedding," she continued. her voice breaking. "he kept pretending he wasn't nervous, but he called me about everything."

your chest tightened until breathing hurt.

"the flowers. the music. whether his suit should be black or dark blue." a small sound escaped her. almost a laugh. almost another sob. "he didn't know anything about suits."

you stared at her. images appeared without permission. him standing in front of the mirror. him adjusting a tie. him waiting at the end of an aisle that would never exist. your vision blurred.

"he would've been so happy." you looked down. at the ring. at her hand still resting over yours. "i'm sorry." you whispered again. this time the words carried everything.

i'm sorry i wanted something else. i'm sorry i let a serial killer into our home. i'm sorry your son is dead because i couldn't leave danger alone.

but she only squeezed your fingers. "none of this is your fault." your body went cold. for a second the entire cemetery seemed to disappear.

none of this is your fault

you almost pulled your hand away. almost told her. almost opened your mouth and let every horrible truth fall out in front of everyone.

saint had warned you. saint had followed you. saint had loved you. saint had killed him, and you had known exactly what he was capable of.

instead you stood there. silent. cowardly. letting a grieving mother forgive you for something she didn't even know you had done.

⠀

-

⠀

the condolences began shortly after. one person after another. faces you recognized. faces you didn't.

his aunt hugged you for too long. his old school friend held both of your hands and told you how sorry he was. a colleague said your fiancé had talked about you constantly. someone else told you the two of you had been perfect together.

every sentence felt like punishment. "i can't imagine what you're going through." you nodded. "he didn't deserve this." you nodded again. "they'll find whoever did it." your breath caught.

you looked at the man speaking. one of his cousins, maybe. you couldn't remember. his expression was tight with anger. "the police will catch him."

the words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. the police will catch him. you should have felt relieved. you should have wanted that.

saint was a murderer. saint had taken the person standing beside you in photographs. the person whose clothes still hung inside your wardrobe. the person whose ring still wrapped around your finger. but beneath the grief, beneath the anger, beneath the guilt, another feeling moved.

fear

not fear that they wouldn't catch him. fear that they would. the realization made you feel sick.

you excused yourself before anyone could notice. you walked several steps away. pretending to adjust your umbrella. pretending you simply needed air. your fingers shook around the handle.

what was wrong with you? how could any part of you still care what happened to him? how could you stand at your fiancé's funeral and feel afraid for the man who had killed him?

you pressed your lips together. hard. trying to force the thought away. it remained.

SAINT

always saint. even here. especially here.

⠀

-

⠀

the coffin rested above the open grave. dark wood beneath a sea of white flowers. you recognized some of them. lilies. his mother loved lilies. you wondered if he had. you should have known. the thought nearly broke you.

people gathered around the grave. umbrellas touching. black fabric shifting beneath the wind.

you stood in the front row beside his family. exactly where everyone expected you to be. the fiancée. the almost-wife. the woman who was supposed to share the rest of his life.

the ceremony began. you barely heard any of it. words floated around you without meaning. beloved son. loyal friend. taken too soon. a life full of promise. every sentence made the guilt heavier.

you stared at the coffin. trying to understand that he was inside. that beneath the polished wood was the face you'd watched across the couch.

the hands that had once held yours. the chest you'd rested your head against. the mouth that had said love you so casually you had stopped hearing it. you had spent so long feeling alone beside him. now you would have given anything for one more quiet evening. one more distracted answer. one more night with his back turned toward you. anything. anything except this.

the person speaking paused. his sister stepped forward. she held a folded piece of paper in both hands. they trembled so violently that his father moved closer, ready to catch her if she fell. she began reading.

her voice broke after the first sentence. people around you lowered their heads. she tried again. talking about childhood. about the time he had broken his arm trying to jump from the garage roof because he'd promised her he could fly. a small wave of laughter moved through the crowd. soft. painful. full of tears.

she spoke about how he answered every call. no matter how late. how he had driven three hours to pick her up after her first breakup. how he teased her constantly but never let anyone else do it. how he had promised to dance with her at the wedding.

your eyes closed. the wedding. again. a future appearing in every sentence only to be destroyed again.

when she finished, she bent forward. unable to hold herself together any longer. their father caught her. his mother began sobbing again. and something inside you gave way. not completely. not yet. but enough that the first tear finally escaped.

it slid down your cheek. warm against skin made cold by rain. then another. and another. your hand closed around the ring. holding it so tightly the metal pressed painfully into your finger. you welcomed it. you deserved pain. you deserved all of it.

⠀

-

⠀

the coffin began to lower. your body moved half a step forward before you caught yourself. the ropes shifted. the dark wood descended slowly into the earth.

his mother cried out. a sound so raw it seemed to tear through everyone standing there.

you covered your mouth. your knees nearly collapsed beneath you. this was it. this was the moment he disappeared. not the news. not the police. not the empty apartment. this.

watching the person you had loved vanish into the ground. someone placed a hand against your back. you didn't know who. you didn't care. the coffin moved lower. lower. until there was nothing left but the grave.

the rain fell into it. people stepped forward one by one. flowers dropped onto the wood below. white against black.

his mother went first. then his father. then his sister. when it was your turn, somebody placed a single white rose into your hand. you stared at it. water gathered along the petals. your fingers trembled.

slowly you stepped toward the edge. the grave looked impossibly deep. for a moment you saw nothing. then the coffin came into focus below. your chest cracked open.

"i'm sorry." the words left you before you could stop them. quiet enough that nobody else heard. you hoped he did. wherever he was. if he was anywhere.

you let the rose fall. it turned once in the air. then landed softly among the others. your hand remained extended above the grave. empty. the ring caught the gray light. you stared at it. a promise wrapped around your finger. a promise you had broken long before death ended it.

"i'm so sorry."

⠀

-

⠀

people began leaving slowly. small groups disappearing between rows of graves. black umbrellas drifting toward the gates. more hugs. more hands resting against your shoulders. more condolences you didn't deserve.

his family stayed for a while. his mother asked if you wanted to come home with them. you almost said yes. then you imagined sitting inside their house. surrounded by childhood photographs. listening to stories about the man you'd helped kill. you couldn't.

"i just need a minute." you said. your voice sounded distant. she looked toward the grave. then back at you. understanding filled her expression. "of course."

she kissed your cheek. his father hugged you next. stiffly at first. then tighter. "you're still family." he whispered.

your eyes closed. the words felt like a knife. you didn't deserve that either. his sister could barely look at you without crying. when she wrapped her arms around you, her entire body shook. "he was so happy with you."

you held her. unable to say anything. because maybe he had been. and maybe you had simply stopped noticing.

eventually they left. you watched them walk away together. three people entering the cemetery as four. the realization settled inside you with unbearable weight.

saint hadn't only emptied your apartment. he had emptied their family. there would always be an empty chair now. an unanswered phone. a birthday that felt wrong. a christmas morning with one less voice.

his mother would wake up every day and remember she had buried her son. his father would carry the coffin in his head for the rest of his life. his sister would marry someday, maybe, and look toward the place where her brother should have been.

you had thought grief belonged to you. it didn't. it spread. through families. through friendships. through every person who had once built part of their life around him. and saint had left all of them standing in the ruins.

because of you.

⠀

-

⠀

the cemetery grew quiet. the workers had disappeared beneath the shelter of a nearby building. waiting for you to leave before they finished covering the grave.

you remained. alone now. rain falling harder.

your umbrella lay forgotten on the ground several feet away. carried there by the wind after your hand had loosened around it. your hair clung to your face. your dress soaked through. you barely felt the cold.

the grave stood in front of you. flowers already bending beneath the rain. his name had been placed on a temporary marker. two dates. a life contained between them. you stared at the first. the day he entered the world. then the second. the day saint took him out of it.

you dropped onto the wet ground. mud soaked instantly through the fabric covering your knees. you didn't care. your hands pressed against the earth at the edge of the grave.

"i'm sorry."

your voice broke. for days the tears hadn't come. now they wouldn't stop. your shoulders shook. breath tearing painfully from your lungs.

"i'm so fucking sorry."

the words fell into the open grave. you bent forward, forehead nearly touching the ground. the ring pressed into the mud beneath your palm.

"you didn't deserve this."

rain ran down your face. mixing with tears. filling your mouth whenever you tried to breathe.

"you didn't deserve any of it."

memories came all at once. his distracted smile. the sound of his key turning inside the lock. the way he always left cabinet doors open. the way he complained when you stole the blanket. his hand finding yours beneath the covers.

⠀

don't forget to eat today. love you. ⠀

the note. you had kept it. still folded inside your bag. written shortly before he died. your hand moved toward it instinctively. pulling the damp paper free.

the ink had started bleeding slightly from the rain. you unfolded it anyway. a sound tore from your throat. you pressed the note against your chest.

"i loved you."

the confession felt too late. useless. cruel. you had loved him. not enough. not correctly. not when it mattered. but you had. you looked toward the grave. vision blurred.

"i know it didn't feel like it."

your breathing broke apart.

"but i did."

the rain grew heavier. striking the earth. the flowers. your skin.

"i should've stayed away from him."

the words escaped before you could stop them. silence answered. you swallowed.

"he told me to."

your fingers tightened around the note.

"he warned me and i still..."

you couldn't finish. because saying it aloud made everything real. you had gone looking for saint. again and again. every shadow. every alley. every note.

you had treated danger like a mystery meant to be solved. you had wanted to see the monster. wanted him to see you. and now the man you were supposed to marry was underground.

"it should've been me."

the sentence came quietly. too easily. you stared downward. at the mud gathering beneath your nails. at the white gold ring stained dark.

"he should've killed me."

for one moment you almost wished he had. maybe then everyone else would still have their son. their brother. their friend.

you didn't know how long you stayed there. minutes. an hour. time no longer existed. only grief. only rain. only the grave. then something changed. not a sound. not movement. a feeling. familiar.

your crying quieted. slowly your head lifted. the cemetery stretched out around you. empty pathways. black trees. rows of stone disappearing into mist. nobody. and yet your skin prickled.

the same way it had in the streets. the same way it had inside the alley. the same way it always did before he appeared. your stomach turned.

no

you looked toward the cemetery gates. empty. toward the trees. nothing. toward the stone chapel at the far end of the grounds. dark windows stared back at you.

your pulse began climbing. he was here. you knew it with the same terrible certainty you'd known every other time. watching. even now. even here.

anger cut through the grief. sharp enough to make you sit upright. your eyes searched the distance. you pushed yourself onto trembling legs. mud covered your dress. the note still clutched inside one hand.

the cemetery remained silent but the feeling didn't leave. if anything, it grew stronger. eyes against your skin. a presence hidden somewhere beyond the graves. you turned slowly, searching every shadow. still nothing.

the fury inside you rose. rain streamed down your face. your hands shook at your sides. silence. then, somewhere in the distance, a shape moved. barely. a shadow passing between two trees. your breath stopped. you stared. nothing remained. only darkness. only rain.

maybe you'd imagined it. maybe grief had finally broken something inside your mind. but you knew better.

saint had come. not close enough to be seen. not close enough to touch. only close enough to make sure you weren't alone. and somehow that made you hate him even more. because even after taking everything from you, he still believed he had the right to stay.

you looked down at the grave one final time. your fingers closed around the ring. then you lifted the umbrella from the ground. you turned and began walking toward the cemetery gates.

one slow step after another. behind you the grave remained open. ahead of you, the city waited. and somewhere between the trees, hidden beneath the rain, the man who had destroyed your life watched you leave.

⠀

-

⠀

the ride home felt endless. rain slid quietly across the windows, washing the city into blurred streaks of gray. buildings passed. traffic lights changed. you watched all of it without really seeing any of it.

at some point the driver told you you'd arrived. you weren't sure how long you'd been sitting there. you thanked him automatically before stepping outside. cold rain greeted you immediately. you didn't bother opening your umbrella. there didn't seem to be much point anymore.

by the time you reached the entrance of the apartment building, your dress was damp around the hem. droplets clung to your hair, slowly running down your neck.

the lobby stood exactly as you'd left it. warm. bright. ordinary. the elevator doors slid shut behind you. twenty three floors. the familiar mechanical hum filled the silence. normally you would've checked your phone. today it remained buried somewhere inside your bag. you didn't care who had texted. you didn't care who hadn't.

the elevator chimed. the hallway stretched out in front of you, empty. for a moment you simply stood there. your apartment waited at the end of it. home.

the word didn't feel right anymore. you reached for your keys. your fingers slipped once. then again. on the third try the key finally found the lock.

the apartment was dark. you didn't switch on the lights. there was still enough gray daylight filtering through the windows. you stepped inside. closed the door. and stopped.

there it was. that scent. subtle. barely noticeable. and yet unmistakable. dark cedar. clean linen. something colder underneath. your eyes closed. not because you wanted to remember it. because you recognized it instantly.

⠀

SAINT

⠀

a week ago your pulse would've raced. a week ago you would've searched every corner of the apartment. called his name. waited for an answer. today you were simply tired. so unbelievably tired.

you slipped your shoes off without taking your eyes off the hallway. nothing. the apartment remained perfectly still. only the quiet hum of the refrigerator reached your ears.

you slowly walked farther inside. past the living room. past the couch. past the television. everything looked exactly the way you'd left it that morning. except...

your gaze landed on the kitchen table. a folded piece of paper rested neatly in the center. waiting. of course. a hollow laugh escaped you. "of course."

you didn't move immediately. instead you stood there looking at it. it almost felt ridiculous. every time you convinced yourself he couldn't possibly get any further into your life, he somehow managed.

your fingers slowly reached for the paper. the handwriting greeted you before you even finished unfolding it. sharp. confident. familiar.

⠀

COME HOME TO ME

⠀

you read the sentence once. then again. the room stayed silent. for several long seconds, you simply looked at the words.

then your eyes drifted toward the bedroom. the door stood half open. inside his clothes were still hanging in the wardrobe. his watch still rested on the nightstand. his toothbrush still stood beside yours.

your hand slowly closed around the paper. the edges crumpled beneath your fingers. "you're sick." your voice sounded strangely calm. almost empty. "you're completely fucking sick."

he had watched you bury the man he murdered. and this, this was what he had to say. you looked around the kitchen until your eyes found a pen lying beside a grocery list. without thinking you grabbed it. turned the note over. you didn't need long. the pen touched the page.

⠀

stay away from me

⠀

you stared at the sentence. it wasn't enough. you crossed it out. started again.

⠀

leave my life

⠀

no. still wrong. another line through it. your jaw tightened. finally you wrote:

⠀

whatever this is, it's over. stay out of my life.

⠀

this time you stopped. your handwriting looked uneven. letters pressed too hard into the paper. you looked at both sides. his words. yours. it felt less like a conversation and more like a goodbye. at least you wanted it to be.

carefully you folded the note again. not because you wanted to preserve it. because you knew he'd come back. he always did.

you placed it exactly where he'd left it. straightened it once. then stepped away. "read it." the whisper disappeared into the apartment. "and leave me alone." for the first time since meeting him, you meant every single word.

you turned your back on the kitchen. your bag slipped from your shoulder. it landed on the floor with a dull thud. you left it there. your coat followed a few steps later. you didn't bother hanging it up.

the bedroom felt colder than usual. the sheets were still untouched from that morning. for a long moment, you stood beside the bed. your eyes wandered across the room. the wardrobe. the photographs. the empty pillow. the silence.

your fingers found the white gold ring. you turned it absentmindedly around your finger. it refused to move. or maybe you simply didn't have the strength anymore.

you lay down without changing. without washing away the rain. without taking off your makeup. the mattress dipped beneath your weight. your entire body ached. not in one place. everywhere.

you pulled the blanket over yourself. your eyes slowly closed. sleep found you almost immediately. not because you felt safe. simply because grief had finally exhausted every part of you.

the apartment fell silent once more. only the rain remained. softly tapping against the windows. and on the kitchen table, the note waited. exactly where you'd left it.

⠀

-

⠀

*knock knock*

the sound tore you out of sleep. another knock followed. firm. steady. coming from the front door.

your eyes snapped open. for a second everything felt unfamiliar. then yesterday crashed back into you. the funeral. the cemetery. the rain. the note.

⠀

COME HOME TO ME

⠀

your heart lurched. he'd read what you'd written. he'd come back. another knock echoed through the apartment.

you pushed yourself upright. the black dress from yesterday was still clinging to your body, wrinkled from sleeping in it. your makeup had settled beneath your eyes. your hair was a mess. you didn't care.

⠀

*knock knock knock*

⠀

he wasn't leaving. slowly you stood and walked into the hallway. every instinct told you not to open the door. as you passed the kitchen, your eyes drifted toward the table.

you stopped. empty. the note was gone. completely. your reply. his handwriting. everything. your stomach dropped. he'd been here. sometime during the night. while you'd been asleep. he'd taken it and left nothing behind.

⠀

another knock. louder now.

⠀

you forced your feet toward the door. your hand rested on the handle for a moment before you leaned toward the peephole.

two men. dark coats. badges. police.

every thought inside your head disappeared. they know. they know everything. your hand slipped from the lock. how? had someone seen him? had saint said something? had they found fingerprints? had...

your eyes darted back toward the kitchen. the table was still empty. nothing. the note was gone.

⠀

another knock.

⠀

you closed your eyes. calm down. if they knew, they wouldn't be knocking. they would've already come in. you unlocked the door.

"miss y/ln?" the older detective offered a sympathetic smile. "good morning." - "good morning." - "i'm detective reed." he briefly showed you his badge. "this is my partner." the younger detective gave you a small nod. he looked around your age. his expression was difficult to read.

"first of all..." reed lowered his voice. "...we're very sorry for your loss." something inside you loosened. they weren't here because of you. they were here because someone had been murdered.

"may we come in?" - "yes..." you stepped aside. "of course." the two detectives entered. reed thanked you quietly. the younger detective's eyes wandered through the apartment. not suspiciously. simply taking everything in.

the untouched flowers. the jacket hanging by the entrance. the framed photographs. the silence.

"sorry..." you looked around almost apologetically. "...i wasn't expecting anyone." - "you don't have to apologize." reed offered a reassuring smile. "we'll only take a few minutes."

you nodded. "can i get you something? coffee?" - "that's not necessary." the younger detective looked at reed. "i'd actually like one." reed sighed almost imperceptibly. "really?" he shrugged. "it's been a long morning." despite everything, the exchange felt strangely normal. "...okay."

you disappeared into the kitchen. anything to have your back turned for a moment. the coffee machine hummed softly while you tried to steady your breathing.

they don't know. they can't. otherwise they wouldn't be sitting at your table.

you carried the mugs over. "thank you." the younger detective said quietly. reed waited until everyone had sat down before opening his notebook.

"i know this won't be easy." you wrapped both hands around the warm mug. "i'd just like to go over a few things." you nodded.

"when was the last time you saw your fiancé?" - "the evening before." - "how was he?" you frowned slightly. "...normal."

reed looked up. "normal?" you nodded. "he cooked dinner." the memory appeared so vividly it almost hurt. "we ate together ...we watched a movie." a pause. "he was happy." you looked down at the coffee. "he laughed." your voice grew quieter. "nothing seemed wrong." reed wrote something down.

"did he mention meeting anyone the next day?" - "no."

"did he seem nervous?" - "no."

"worried?" - "no."

"did he say anyone had been bothering him recently?" - "no."

another note.

"was he expecting any visitors?" - "no."

every answer came easier than the last. reed continued.

"did anything about his routine change during the days leading up to his death?" - "no."

"did either of you receive anonymous messages?"

your eyes instinctively drifted toward the empty place on the kitchen table. gone. the note was gone.

"...no."

the answer barely reached your own ears. reed didn't react. he simply kept writing.

"phone calls from unknown numbers?" - "no."

"letters?" - "no."

"anyone trying to contact you after his death?"

your throat felt dry. saint had stood inside this apartment. he had held you. kissed you. left notes. returned while you slept.

"no."

justice was sitting across from you. all you had to do was tell the truth.

he's called saint. he writes notes. he's been here. he killed my fiancé. the words never came. instead, another lie.

"...nothing." silence settled over the table. reed finally closed his notebook. "thank you." he looked genuinely sympathetic. "i know we're asking you to relive something incredibly painful." you managed a small nod. he stood. "if you remember anything..." - "...i'll call." - "please."

the detectives walked toward the front door. reed stepped into the hallway first. the younger detective followed, then stopped.

"...sorry." he turned back around with an almost embarrassed smile. "i completely forgot." he extended his hand. "mr. leal." you shook it. his handshake was warm. "but you can call me roman." - "...roman." he smiled.

"i'll be assigned to your fiancé's case from now on." you looked at him questioningly. "which means i'll be checking in every day for a little while." - "every day?"

he nodded. "just to make sure you're alright." before you could answer, he continued. "if saint is still somewhere nearby..." his expression remained calm. "...i'd rather know you're not facing that alone."

for a moment neither of you spoke. then you nodded quietly. "...thank you." - "see you tomorrow." the two detectives disappeared down the hallway. you closed the door. turned the lock and leaned against it.

the apartment fell silent once more. then simply stood there. unmoving.

your eyes slowly found the kitchen. the empty spot on the table. the note was gone. which meant saint had been there and you hadn't told them.

why?

you frowned. no. why hadn't you told them? justice had been sitting in your kitchen. two detectives. badges. questions. all you had to do was tell the truth. he left notes. he was here. he killed my fiancé. but you lied.

the realization settled heavily inside your chest. what the hell was wrong with you? you hated him. didn't you? then why did the thought of him being caught make your stomach turn? why had you protected him? why had it felt impossible to say his name?

no answer came. only another thought.

roman

tomorrow. and the day after that. every single day. he would walk through that door. ask more questions. look a little closer. sooner or later he was going to notice.

the lies. the hesitation. the way your eyes searched the kitchen whenever saint was mentioned. you slowly looked back toward the front door. for the first time since the funeral, saint wasn't the only person you were afraid of. because if roman kept coming back, eventually, one of them was going to find the truth.

⠀

-

⠀

the next morning, he came back. right on time. he asked the same questions. had anyone contacted you? had you noticed anything unusual? had you remembered something you'd forgotten to mention? every answer came just as easily as the day before.

"no."

the morning after that, he returned again. this time alone. detective reed never came back. it was just him. he never stayed long. ten minutes. sometimes fifteen.

long enough to ask a few questions, look around the apartment, make sure everything was alright. then he'd leave again. at least that's how it started.

after a few days the conversations slowly drifted away from the investigation. sometimes he'd ask if you'd managed to sleep. sometimes whether you'd eaten.

once he noticed the untouched groceries in your kitchen and silently moved the milk back into the fridge before it spoiled.

another time he found you standing on the balcony with a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. instead of asking questions, he simply stood beside you. neither of you spoke for several minutes. strangely the silence never felt uncomfortable.

he wasn't much older than you. long, dark curls rested against the collar of his coat whenever the wind caught them. deep brown eyes. sharp features softened only by the occasional smile. and a voice so low and calm that it somehow made every room feel quieter.

he never pitied you. you were grateful for that. everyone else looked at you like you were something fragile. roman didn't. he spoke to you the same way he would've spoken to anyone else. like you were still a person. not just someone terrible things had happened to.

some mornings, you'd already have coffee waiting before he knocked. he always smiled. "i'm starting to think you're only letting me in because of the coffee." - "maybe." it was the first joke either of you had made in weeks. he laughed quietly. and somehow you found yourself laughing too.

the investigation never stopped. every visit ended with another question. another attempt. another opportunity to tell the truth.

"are you absolutely certain nobody contacted you?" - "yes."

"no letters?" - "no."

"no strange encounters?" - "...no."

the lies came more naturally now. that scared you.

at first you'd told yourself you only needed more time. then you convinced yourself there wasn't enough evidence anyway. eventually you stopped trying to explain it.

you weren't sure anymore whether you were protecting saint or protecting yourself. because once you admitted the truth, you'd have to admit everything. the notes. the alley. the apartment. the kisses. the night you'd willingly let a serial killer hold you.

your fiancé had died believing you loved only him. his family believed the same. the police did too. telling the truth wouldn't only expose saint, it would expose you and maybe that terrified you even more.

⠀

-

⠀

days passed. then another. then another. the apartment no longer felt quite as empty. not because grief had become easier. it hadn't. but because every morning, someone knocked on your door.

someone whose footsteps you recognized before he even spoke. someone who asked if you'd eaten. who always accepted a cup of coffee. who sometimes stayed five minutes longer than he had to. sometimes twenty.

the conversations grew easier. they talked less about evidence. more about everything else. movies. the weather. a café he'd insisted made the best cinnamon rolls in the city. the stray cat he'd somehow befriended outside the precinct. ordinary things. small things. things that reminded you life still existed somewhere beyond police reports and cemeteries.

the apartment almost felt safe again and as each day passed without another note, without another knock in the middle of the night, without another glimpse of blond hair disappearing into the darkness. you slowly allowed yourself to believe something you hadn't dared think before.

maybe... saint had finally let you go.

⠀

-

⠀

the following monday felt different. for the first time in what felt like forever, you woke up before your alarm. today wasn't about detectives. or funerals. or cemeteries.

today you were finally going back to work.

standing in front of the bathroom mirror, you hesitated for a moment. you still looked tired. the dark circles beneath your eyes hadn't disappeared. your smile still felt unfamiliar, but it was something.

slowly you slipped the white gold ring back onto your finger. you hadn't taken it off once. you weren't ready. maybe you never would be.

outside the city welcomed you with warm air. the rain had finally stopped. cars rolled past. people hurried along the sidewalks. someone laughed across the street. a dog barked somewhere nearby. life had continued. whether you wanted it to or not.

you found yourself walking without constantly looking over your shoulder. the familiar streets no longer felt haunted.

your feet carried you through downtown almost automatically. at the next intersection you slowed. the alley. you noticed it before your mind had the chance to. just across the street. quiet. empty. the place where everything had changed.

where saint had stepped out of the darkness for the first time. where you'd stopped being afraid of him. where you'd started making the biggest mistake of your life. you looked away. not today.

you crossed with the next green light, deliberately choosing the longer route. it wasn't fear anymore. it was a decision.

you were done looking for him. and strangely he seemed done looking for you too. days had passed. then more. no notes. no messages. no feeling of being watched. nothing.

a small part of you almost couldn't believe it. all because of your last message:

⠀

whatever this is, it's over. stay out of my life.

⠀

you'd expected another argument. another note. another attempt to convince you. instead... silence.

maybe he'd finally understood. maybe, for once, he'd listened. the thought settled somewhere inside you. careful. fragile. hopeful.

your office building came into view. you stopped outside for a second, taking a slow breath before pushing the glass doors open. almost immediately familiar voices greeted you. your coworkers spotted you before you'd even reached your desk.

"oh my god..." one of them wrapped you in a careful hug. "we're so, so sorry." another squeezed your shoulder. "we've been thinking about you every day." - "i'm glad you're back."

their kindness should've comforted you, but it made your chest feel heavier. every conversation sounded the same. every face carried the same expression. sympathy. pity. grief.

you appreciated it. you really did. but after weeks of hearing how sorry everyone was, you wished someone would ask you something normal.

how was traffic? did you watch the game? want to grab lunch later? anything that didn't remind you why you'd been gone.

after a while the conversations faded. finally. people returned to work. phones started ringing again. keyboards clicked. printers hummed. the familiar rhythm of the office slowly returned.

it felt good. good to answer emails. good to organize paperwork. good to think about something other than death.

you reached your desk. smiled faintly to yourself. this was exactly what you needed. something normal. you pulled your chair back. then stopped. there was an envelope lying neatly in the center of your desk. no stamp. no address. your name wasn't written anywhere.

your smile disappeared. you picked it up. it wasn't sealed. your fingers suddenly felt cold.

no. not here. please... not here.

you unfolded the paper inside. it wasn't a letter. it was a newspaper clipping. an article. your eyes immediately found the headline.

⠀

FIANCÉE OF SAINT'S LATEST VICTIM SAYS SHE NEVER SUSPECTED A THING. She described the days leading up to the murder as completely ordinary. According to investigators, neither she nor the victim had noticed anything unusual before his death. Police continue to search for the serial killer known as Saint.

⠀

you stared at the words. your interview. your lies. then your eyes drifted lower. beneath the article, written in familiar handwriting, just one sentence:

⠀

YOU LIED BEAUTIFULLY FOR ME

⠀

everything around you disappeared. the office. the conversations. the ringing phones.

your fingers loosened around the paper. he knew. he knew exactly what you'd told the police. he knew every lie.

your heartbeat pounded so loudly you barely heard someone call your name from across the room. saint wasn't gone. he'd never been gone. he'd simply been watching. waiting. he had reached your desk before you had.

⠀

-

⠀

somehow you made it through the rest of the day. you answered emails. sat through meetings. pretended to listen whenever somebody spoke to you.

every now and then, your eyes drifted back to the folded newspaper clipping inside your desk drawer. you should've thrown it away, but you couldn't bring yourself to. the words refused to leave your mind.

⠀

YOU LIED BEAUTIFULLY FOR ME

⠀

beautifully. as if he'd been proud of you. as if the lies hadn't belonged to the police. but to the two of you.

the thought made your stomach twist. every unfamiliar face suddenly caught your attention. every person walking past your office. every coworker stopping by your desk. every delivery driver entering the building. you caught yourself wondering.

does he know them? has he been here? is he watching now?

it was exhausting. by the time the workday finally ended, your head was pounding. you packed your bag and stepped outside.

the evening air was warm. the city buzzed around you exactly as it always had. people filled the sidewalks. music drifted from cafés. cars rolled through intersections. everything looked normal.

you wished it felt that way.

halfway home you reached the familiar crossing. the alley waited across the street. quiet. empty. just as it had been that morning.

your pace slowed automatically. for a brief second your eyes lingered on the narrow entrance. nothing moved. no blond hair. no black clothes. no impossible feeling crawling across your skin. still you crossed with the next light and chose the longer route again. just in case.

by the time you reached your apartment building, you almost laughed at yourself. this had become ridiculous. he wasn't there. he hadn't been there this morning. he wasn't standing in the alley now.

maybe... maybe today really had been nothing more than one final message. one final goodbye.

the apartment greeted you with silence. you checked every room anyway. the bedroom. the balcony. the bathroom. the kitchen. nothing. no notes. no scent lingering in the air. no sign that anyone had been inside. you let out a slow breath. "you're losing it." the quiet laugh that followed sounded tired more than amused.

you locked the door. double checked it. then headed into the living room. the television flickered to life almost immediately.

you weren't interested in whatever was playing. you just didn't want the apartment to be silent. voices filled the room. a game show. commercials. a sitcom you'd seen years ago. anything was better than hearing your own thoughts.

you curled up beneath a blanket. trying not to think. trying not to look toward the windows every few minutes. trying not to wonder whether someone might be looking back. the evening news interrupted the program. you barely paid attention.

"breaking news."

your eyes remained fixed on the coffee table.

"another body has been discovered."

your head lifted. the anchor continued speaking.

"...local authorities have confirmed that councilman nathan mercer was found dead earlier this evening."

your heartbeat slowed. the screen changed. blue police lights. yellow tape. flashing cameras. a street you recognized immediately. barely ten minutes from your apartment.

"investigators have confirmed that the victim's body showed the same signature associated with the serial killer known as saint."

another image appeared. officers shielding the entrance. forensic teams moving in and out. then the anchor's voice dropped.

"...authorities have withheld most details from the public. however, sources close to the investigation report that the victim's heart had been removed and placed beside the body."

your blood ran cold. not hidden. not stolen. placed. carefully. deliberately. like it had been left there for someone to find. the next image filled the screen. letters written in blood across the wall.

⠀

SAINT

⠀

your breathing stopped. everyone watching the news saw another signature. another murder. another victim.

but you... you heard something else.

⠀

COME HOME TO ME

YOU LIED BEAUTIFULLY FOR ME

⠀

and now...

a heart.

your stomach twisted. no - this wasn't for the police. it wasn't for the reporters. it wasn't even for the man he'd killed. you knew. saint had left that heart for one person. and one person only.

you weren't listening anymore. he'd done it again. after all this time, he'd done it again. and so close. why here?

your mind searched desperately for an answer. was it coincidence? a warning? had he wanted you to see it on the news? had he chosen the location because of you? or had he simply wanted you to know he was still there?

the apartment suddenly felt much smaller. you muted the television. the silence returned instantly. too loud. too heavy. your eyes wandered toward the windows. darkness had swallowed the city outside. for the first time in days you felt watched again.

that night sleep refused to come. you turned onto one side. then the other. closed your eyes. opened them again.

every small sound from the hallway made your pulse jump. the elevator. footsteps. a car door somewhere below. your thoughts wouldn't stop. your fiancé. the funeral. roman. the lies. saint. always saint.

you hated him. you repeated it to yourself over and over. you hated him. he'd ruined your life. taken everything from you.

so why... why did a small, shameful part of you keep wondering where he was? whether he'd watched the news too. whether he was safe. whether you'd ever see him again. your eyes snapped open.

"what the fuck is wrong with me..." the whisper disappeared into the darkness. you buried your face deeper into the pillow. as if hiding from the thought could erase it. it couldn't.

because no matter how hard you tried to push him away, saint had already found a place inside your mind. and that was the only place he needed to be.

⠀

-

⠀

the next morning arrived with another knock. not loud. not urgent. steady. predictable. somewhere along the way, you'd started recognizing it.

roman

by the time you opened the door, he was already holding two paper coffee cups. "thought i'd save you the trouble today." the corner of your mouth lifted ever so slightly. "trying to put me out of business?" - "something like that." he handed one to you before stepping inside.

the apartment had become familiar to him by now. he no longer looked around the room each time he entered. he simply took off his jacket, placed it over the back of the dining chair and sat down as though he'd done it a hundred times before.

today felt different. he wasn't smiling as much. you noticed it immediately. "everything okay?" he looked up. "me?" you nodded. he hesitated. "did you watch the news last night?" your fingers tightened slightly around the warm cup. the new murder. the heart. saint.

roman leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "i almost came over." you frowned. "...last night?" - "i figured you'd probably seen it." he looked away for a brief moment before continuing. "i didn't want you sitting here alone after something like that."

the room fell quiet. you hadn't expected that answer. he wasn't asking questions. he wasn't investigating. he'd simply been worried.

"i'm okay." the words sounded unconvincing even to yourself. he studied your face for a second. "you didn't sleep." it wasn't a question. you gave a tired smile. "is it that obvious?" - "a little." you looked down into your coffee. "i'll survive."

roman didn't answer immediately. instead he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small notebook. "i still have to ask." his tone became more professional.

"did anyone contact you after yesterday?" - "no."

"anything left at your apartment?" - "no."

"did you notice anyone following you?" - "no."

he wrote down each answer. then closed the notebook again. "good." he sounded relieved. almost too relieved.

another silence settled between you. outside, rain tapped softly against the windows again. inside, only the quiet hum of the refrigerator filled the apartment. roman broke it first.

"can i ask you something that isn't official?" you nodded. "have you actually been outside... besides work?" you thought for a moment. "not really." - "you should." you raised an eyebrow. he smiled faintly.

"not because i'm telling you to. because hiding in here isn't going to make this place feel safe again." you let the words settle. maybe he was right. maybe that was exactly what you'd been doing. trying to make the world smaller until nothing could reach you anymore.

"it's just..." you searched for the right words. "everything reminds me of him." roman understood immediately. he didn't ask which one. your fiancé. or saint. he assumed there was only one answer.

"that's normal." his voice remained low. "grief doesn't disappear because we want it to." he looked around the apartment. "but eventually..." his gaze returned to yours. "...you deserve to live in it again."

something tightened in your throat. nobody had said that to you before. they'd told you to stay strong. to take your time. to call if you needed anything. but nobody had reminded you that one day you were still supposed to live.

without really thinking, you sat down beside him on the couch. neither of you spoke. minutes passed in comfortable silence. then, almost absentmindedly, roman reached over. his hand rested gently over yours. not possessive. not romantic. simply there. grounding.

"if it ever gets too much..." his thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles. "...call me." you looked at him. "doesn't matter what time it is. i mean it. i don't want you sitting here convincing yourself you have to carry all of this alone."

your eyes searched his. there was something there. something that hadn't been there during his first visit. it wasn't difficult to recognize. it was much harder to decide what it meant. you slowly withdrew your hand. not because you wanted to hurt him. because you didn't know what to do with kindness anymore.

"i'm really okay." you offered him a small smile. "i promise." he held your gaze for another second. then gave a quiet nod. "i hope so."

he stood. for a moment you thought he was getting ready to leave. instead he reached beneath his jacket. your muscles tensed instinctively. when his hand emerged again, he was holding a small black handgun.

he kept the barrel pointed toward the floor before engaging the safety. then extended it toward you. you stared at it. "...roman." - "i want you to have it." - "no."

your answer came instantly. "i can't." - "you can." he placed it carefully on the coffee table between you instead of forcing it into your hands. "roman-" - "listen to me." his voice stayed calm. "if saint ever comes through that door..." he nodded toward the entrance. "...i don't want your only option to be hoping he'll leave."

you looked at the pistol. it felt wrong. heavy. even without touching it. "i've never even held one." - "i know." - "i'll show you." you shook your head. "i don't want one." - "i know." another pause. "but wanting has nothing to do with surviving."

those words lingered in the room. he crouched in front of the coffee table, meeting your eyes. "if nothing ever happens..." a faint smile appeared. "...you can hand it back to me and I'll happily admit I worried too much." his expression softened again.

"but if one day you're standing in this apartment, and he comes back..." he didn't finish the sentence. he didn't need to. you finally looked at him. there was fear in his eyes. not for himself. for you.

you wondered whether his concern had begun to grow into something else. whether the daily visits had stopped being only about the case. the thought disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. your life was too broken to make sense of feelings. especially someone else's.

after a long silence you reached for the gun. not because you wanted it, because refusing it suddenly felt impossible.

roman let out a quiet breath. "good." he stood, grabbed his jacket and headed toward the door. just before leaving, he looked back one last time. "lock the door after me." - "i always do." - "i know." another small smile. "keep doing it."

then he was gone. the apartment fell quiet once more. your eyes drifted from the closed front door, to the gun resting in your lap.

the thing that frightened you most wasn't the weapon. it was the realization that you had no idea whether you'd be able to pull the trigger if the person standing on the other side of the door was saint.

⠀

-

⠀

the rest of the day passed more easily than you'd expected.

roman's visit that morning lingered in your thoughts far longer than it probably should have. there was something strangely comforting about knowing someone would knock on your door again tomorrow. and the day after that - you didn't feel completely alone.

work helped. it always had. there were emails waiting to be answered. meetings that somehow could've been emails. someone complaining about the coffee machine. another coworker arguing with the printer for what felt like the hundredth time. you found yourself smiling once. it disappeared almost immediately, but it had been there. that felt like progress.

saint barely crossed your mind. when he did, it was only for a second. you reminded yourself of the empty kitchen table. of the days that had passed without another note. without another murder aimed at you. without another impossible encounter. maybe he had finally understood. maybe your message had reached him after all.

⠀

-

⠀

by the time you left the office, your shoulders felt lighter than they had in a long time. the evening air was warm against your skin. music drifted from restaurants. life. normal, ordinary life. you'd almost forgotten what it looked like.

your usual route brought you past the alley once more. your eyes wandered toward it automatically. you didn't slow down. didn't stop. didn't look twice. you simply kept walking.

when your apartment building came into view, you caught yourself thinking about dinner instead of danger. that alone felt like a victory.

you unlocked the door. kicked off your shoes. placed your keys in the small bowl by the entrance. the apartment greeted you with its familiar silence. you wandered through the rooms almost absentmindedly. bedroom. bathroom. kitchen. everything exactly where it belonged.

you smiled to yourself. see? you'd been paranoid. nothing more.

you filled the kettle with water. made yourself tea. then curled up on the couch with the television quietly playing in the background. you weren't really watching. the voices were enough. they made the apartment feel less empty.

your body slowly relaxed into the cushions. for the first time in what felt like forever you felt safe.

⠀

*knock knock*

⠀

your head turned toward the front door. a faint smile appeared before you could stop it. "roman?" maybe he'd forgotten something.

another knock. steady. patient. you set your mug down. frowning, you crossed the apartment. your eye met the peephole. empty. you blinked. leaned closer. still nothing. "...very funny."

you unlocked the door and pulled it open. the hallway stretched out in complete silence. left. right. no one. you stepped forward. looked both directions once more. nothing.

you walked back inside. closed the door. turned the lock. and then you smelled it. that scent. familiar. impossible. your entire body went still. slowly, almost afraid to look, you turned around.

he was standing by the window. motionless. his broad shoulders outlined by the last light of the evening. long blond hair falling loosely around his face. one hand resting in the pocket of his black jeans. the other behind his back.

he'd been watching the city. watching your city. from your apartment. as though he'd always belonged there. he turned his head. those impossible crimson eyes found yours instantly. they softened the moment they did. and then... he smiled. "hi."

⠀

-

⠀

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