Iris had stopped trusting coincidences.
Toronto moved like it always did—streetcars screeching, people half-running with coffee cups, laughter spilling from places that pretended not to feel cold—but beneath it, something was off. Not loud. Not obvious. Just… wrong.
It began with the messages.
They didn't threaten her anymore.
That was what scared her.
The first came just after midnight.
You were quiet today.
She stared at the screen, her fingers cold despite the heater humming beside her. Quiet how? She hadn't posted anything. She hadn't spoken to anyone except—
Her phone buzzed again.
You only do that when you're thinking too much.
Her breath hitched. That wasn't fear yet. It was something closer to being seen without permission.
She typed nothing. Locked the phone. Turned it face down.
From the other side of the room, Rowan shifted in his sleep.
That alone should have comforted her. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The familiar weight of his arm across the pillow. The way he always slept like the world had never hurt him.
Instead, her pulse refused to slow.
Earlier that evening, he'd laughed—really laughed—when she told him she felt watched.
"Toronto does that to everyone," he'd said, brushing it off gently. "Big cities make you paranoid."
He'd kissed her forehead like punctuation.
She told herself that was normal.
But the city had never spoken to her before.
By morning, the pattern grew teeth.
A delivery arrived at her office—unrequested, unmarked. Inside was a notebook. No receipt. No sender.
Just one sentence written neatly on the first page:
You remember things better when you write them down.
Her stomach turned.
She used to say that. Years ago. To Rowan.
She hadn't said it in months.
Her coworker joked about stalkers. Someone else laughed it off as a marketing gimmick. Iris smiled because that's what people do when panic would be inconvenient.
But her hands shook as she closed the notebook.
Because someone wasn't guessing anymore.
Someone was remembering.
That night, Rowan cooked. Pasta, too much garlic. He moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, humming off-key, teasing her when she flinched at a sound outside.
"You're wound tight," he said softly. "Come here."
She did.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. The warmth was real. The smell of soap and garlic and something familiar grounded her.
"You trust me, right?" he asked, casually. Almost playfully.
"Yes," she said, immediately.
The answer came too fast.
He smiled. "Good."
Later, when she went to shower, her phone lit up on the counter.
You shouldn't let fear isolate you.
Her chest tightened.
Another message followed.
You're safer when you listen.
Steam fogged the mirror. Water thundered too loudly. Iris stood frozen, naked and exposed in a locked apartment that suddenly felt like it had too many doors.
She typed back for the first time.
Who are you?
The reply came instantly.
Someone who knows you better than you know yourself.
Her phone slipped from her fingers.
From the bedroom, Rowan called out, "Everything okay in there?"
She swallowed hard. "Yeah."
Her voice sounded normal.
That frightened her most of all.
That night, Iris didn't sleep.
She watched the ceiling. Counted breaths. Listened to the city breathe through cracked windows and distant sirens.
At 3:17 a.m., her phone vibrated one last time.
I would never hurt you.
She stared at the words until they blurred.
Then:
I've always been here.
She turned slowly.
Rowan was awake.
Watching her.
Not smiling. Not frowning.
Just looking at her like someone guarding something precious.
"Can't sleep?" he asked gently.
Iris nodded.
Outside, Toronto kept moving.
Inside, something had shifted.
And for the first time, the thought settled in her chest—not fully formed, not loud enough to accuse, but sharp enough to stay:
What if the threat wasn't following her?
What if it was already holding her?