Victor didn't knock.
The door opened with quiet authority, like he'd never considered the possibility of being refused entry. He stepped inside carrying a small duffel bag and the unmistakable weight of certainty. His eyes swept the apartment in a practiced scan—windows, corners, exits—before settling on Arden.
"We're moving her," he said.
Ife, who had been sitting cross-legged on the couch scrolling through her phone, looked up slowly. "I'm sorry—who is we?"
Victor didn't look at her. "You."
Arden straightened instantly. "She's not cargo."
Victor finally turned, his expression sharp but controlled. "She's a target."
The word landed heavily in the room.
Ife rose to her feet. "I've lived in this city my entire life. I walk home at night. I argue with bus conductors. I've survived worse than whatever shadow game you people are playing."
Victor's jaw tightened. "You've survived because you didn't matter."
Silence followed.
Arden took a step forward. "That was unnecessary."
"It was honest," Victor replied. "They crossed a line yesterday. That means escalation."
Ife folded her arms, anger simmering beneath her calm. "So your solution is to uproot me?"
"Yes."
"No," Arden said firmly.
Victor met his gaze. "Then give me a better one."
The room held its breath.
Finally, Arden asked quietly, "What are the options?"
Victor exhaled. "A secured location outside the city. Or—" he paused, choosing his words carefully, "—she stays here. With you. Surveillance in place. No solo movement."
Ife turned slowly to Arden. "With him?"
Arden felt his heart stutter. "You don't have to—"
"I choose that," she said.
Victor studied her closely. "You understand what that means."
"Yes," she replied. "It means I stay visible instead of hiding."
Arden swallowed hard.
Packing her things felt strangely intimate.
They moved through her apartment together, carefully, like guests in each other's lives. Arden held doors open while Ife folded clothes with quiet efficiency. She handed him books without explanation; he stacked them neatly, reading titles he hadn't known mattered to her.
"You alphabetize fiction?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Chaos has limits."
When they returned to his place, the apartment changed immediately.
Her scent replaced the sterile calm. Her shoes sat by the door. Her scarf draped over the back of a chair. Small things—but undeniable.
"This couch is aggressively uncomfortable," she announced after sitting down.
"I don't lounge," Arden replied.
"That explains your personality."
He laughed despite himself.
Night fell slowly.
Victor's presence lingered—unseen but felt. Arden knew there were cameras now. Listening devices. Layers of protection woven invisibly into the walls.
Still, the apartment felt exposed.
They stood awkwardly in the bedroom doorway.
"This doesn't mean anything has to happen," Arden said quickly, words tumbling out. "You can take the bed. I'll—"
Ife raised a hand. "Relax. I didn't move in to seduce you."
He flushed. "That's not—"
"Although," she added thoughtfully, "you do look very easy to fluster."
He groaned. "Please stop."
She laughed, the sound warm and grounding.
They settled into opposite sides of the bed, space between them heavy with awareness.
Sleep didn't come easily.
Ife stared at the ceiling, listening to Arden's breathing. She could feel the tension in him even without touching—like a coiled wire, always alert.
"Do you ever wonder," she asked softly, "if loving someone makes you weaker?"
Arden turned his head toward her in the dark. "I used to."
"And now?"
"Now I think it just shows you where it hurts."
She considered that. "That's worse."
"Yes," he agreed quietly.
They lay there, not touching, yet impossibly close.
Outside, a car slowed. Arden's muscles tightened instantly.
A soft crackle echoed faintly through the apartment—Victor's voice over a device.
"All clear."
Arden exhaled, the tension easing only slightly.
Later, Ife shifted closer without thinking.
Their fingers brushed.
She paused. "Is this okay?"
He hesitated—then intertwined his fingers with hers. "Yes."
The contact was simple. Steady. Not rushed.
"I don't want you here because you're scared," he said quietly.
"I'm not," she replied. "I'm here because I choose you."
That was worse than fear.
That was commitment.
Arden didn't sleep much that night.
He lay awake listening to the city, to Ife's slow breathing, to the distant hum of danger he couldn't shut out. For the first time in his life, protection didn't feel like control.
It felt like responsibility.
And love, he realized, didn't begin where safety did.
It began where choice refused to disappear.