But my body didn't care what my mind knew. My body remembered hands in the dark, remembered the sound of a bedroom door opening when it shouldn't, remembered what it cost to be caught awake.
So I lay there. Frozen. Counting heartbeats while Cole's silhouette crossed my room and disappeared into the bathroom.
He worked in darkness. I heard soft sounds I couldn't identify. The click of plastic, the whisper of something being moved, the careful movements of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Two minutes. Maybe three.
Then he came back through my bedroom. Paused at the door. His gaze landed on my face. I felt it like a physical weight, the heat of his attention pressing against my closed eyelids.
He's checking if you're awake. Don't move. Don't breathe.
Ten seconds. Fifteen. Then the door clicked shut, and his footsteps retreated down the hallway, and I was alone in the dark with my heart trying to crack through my sternum.
I didn't sleep after that.
I lay there until the sky shifted from black to gray to the pale gold of a May morning, running scenarios in my head like case files I couldn't close.
What was he doing in my bathroom? What could possibly require him to move through my space at three in the morning without asking permission?
Nothing made sense. Nothing I was willing to consider, anyway.
He was checking the window locks. Sweeping for bugs. Making sure the bathroom was secure.
At three in the morning? In the dark? Without telling you?
Maybe he heard something. Maybe there was a threat.
Then why didn't he wake you?
The questions circled without landing, and by the time my alarm finally gave me permission to stop pretending I mightfall back asleep, I still didn't have answers. Just the memory of his silhouette crossing my room and the soft click of plastic I couldn't explain.
I move through the morning routine on alert. Aware of every object, every surface, everything that might have been touched or moved or changed. The bathroom looks the same as always. Chesca's bubble bath on one side of the counter, my skincare products on the other. Purple toothbrush in its unicorn holder. White towels on the rack.
Nothing out of place. Nothing wrong.
You're being paranoid. He probably just—
My hand reaches for the pill pack.
Same spot as always. Right corner of the counter, where I leave it every morning so I don't forget. I picked it up without thinking, thumb finding the corner to pop out the daily dose—
The burr is gone.
I stop. Turn the pack over in my hands.
Same brand. Same pharmacy label. Same number of pills missing for this point in my cycle. Everything identical down to the last detail.
Except for the sharp little ridge of plastic that always catches my thumbnail. The manufacturing defect that's bothered me for weeks. The annoying, familiar imperfection that's been part of my morning routine for so long I stopped consciously noticing it.
Gone. The edge smooth and perfect. New.
This is not my pack.
Understanding crashes through me. I stand there frozen, the pack clutched in my hand, while my brain rearranges every piece of evidence from the night before.
3:07 AM. Cole in your room. Cole in your bathroom. The click of plastic.
He switched your pills.
The pack slips from my fingers and clatters against the porcelain sink. I grip the counter and stare at my reflection in the mirror.