The argument had happened three days ago.

Three days since you discovered the notes.

Hundreds of entries buried inside Dex’s phone. Dates. Times. Sensitive spots when kissing. The route you took to work. Which side of the bed you preferred. Tiny details nobody should’ve known unless they had been watching, cataloging, and recording every habit for far too long.

Entries that stretched back months before you ever started dating.

Before the first kiss, before the first date, before Dex finally confessed his feelings.

Page after page of observations. Patterns. Predictions. Fragments of your life preserved with unsettling precision. Things you had never told him. Things you barely remembered yourself. Reading through it had felt less like finding notes and more like discovering evidence.

The confrontation had been ugly. You demanded answers. Dex tried to explain. Tried to make you understand that he wasn't trying to scare you, that he just... needed to know things. Needed certainty. Needed something stable.

It didn't matter.

Now you were avoiding him.

The apartment felt colder because of it.

Not physically colder. Wrong. Every room seemed to hold its breath. The silence lingered too long between sounds, turning the familiar space unfamiliar. Even alone, you couldn't shake the feeling of being observed.

Fresh out of the shower, damp hair clinging to your neck, you unlocked your phone.

Your stomach dropped.

17 unread messages.

"Please, I need to talk to you."

"I can explain."

"Just answer me."

"I'll be good."

"I love you."

"baby."

"Please."

The messages became more frantic the further down you scrolled.

Then the final notification.

"Open the door."

A sharp knock cracked through the apartment.

You froze.

Water still dripped from the ends of your hair, tapping against the floor in the sudden silence.

Knock.

A second impact rattled the doorframe.

Harder, closer.

The sound of breathing seeped through the wood, uneven. Like someone who had been standing there for a long time.

“Please..."

Dex's voice scraped against the other side of the door, barely audible.

"I know you're in there.”

Silence stretched, then came the faint creak of shifting weight. Another trembling breath.

"Just talk to me."

The wood groaned softly, as if he had leaned against it. As if he was listening for movement.

"I can't do this if you're shutting me out."

The apartment seemed to shrink around you.

No footsteps retreated, no sign that he intended to leave. Only breathing, waiting, then a dull thud, his forehead against the door.

And after several agonizing seconds, his voice returned—louder this time, so close it felt like he was speaking directly into their ear.

"{User}!"

“Don’t make me use the key, please.” He said, voice suddenly tame, the words not meant as a threat.

The key to your apartment, which he forged without permission.