Next morning—
I wake up to empty space.
The bed is warm where Jiang should be, but he's not there. No arm. No antenna brushing my cheek. Just pillow.
"Huh," I mutter.
Kitchen, then.
I carefully roll out of bed—slow, dramatic, like I'm defusing a bomb—and pad toward the kitchen, already imagining him overdoing breakfast with military-level nutrition.
But—
Nothing.
No sound.
No smell.
No alien humming.
I stop in the doorway.
"…Jiang?"
Silence.
Okay. Weird.
I check the kitchen properly. Lights off. Counter clean. No cutting board massacre. No overcooked vegetables. Suspiciously normal.
My heart gives a tiny, stupid jump.
Bedroom—empty.
Bathroom—empty.
Living room—also empty.
The apartment feels… too quiet.
Then I notice it.
The front door.
Unlocked.
I stare at it for a full second.
"…He wouldn't," I whisper.
My brain immediately supplies the worst options: paparazzi, agency emergency, alien crisis, him panicking about human reproduction again—
And then—
