Chapter 4

The Airbnb was small.

Clean, neutral, and built for short stays—white walls, a narrow couch, a desk by the window that barely fit her laptop. The heater clicked on and off like it couldn't decide if it cared.

Zoya dropped her bag by the door and stood there for a moment too long, staring at nothing.

Mei kicked the door shut behind them. "Okay," she said, scanning the place. "Not bad. I've stayed in places that felt legally questionable."

Zoya nodded.

Mei watched her. "You're supposed to say something dry now. Or look unimpressed."

"I'm tired," Zoya said.

That was enough.

Mei didn't push. She never did when Zoya sounded like that—flat, careful, already holding herself together.

They unpacked without really unpacking. Zoya lined her books on the desk in a straight row. Mei opened the fridge, frowned like it offended her personally, then shut it again.

"This is too small for our frozen snack stocks," Mei muttered. "This is not acceptable living."

Zoya's phone buzzed.

Her hand moved on instinct. A university notification. She read the first line, then set the phone down face-up, like daring it to do something worse.

Mei noticed. Said nothing.

Mei leaned against the counter. "I love this," she said lightly. "Us together after so long. You, temporarily single."

Zoya hummed. It wasn't a smile.

Eric and Kenji arrived later with food and noise—Mei's people, loud on purpose, like sound could push the dark out of corners. Kenji declared the couch cursed. Mei argued with him like it mattered. Eric laughed quietly and kept looking at Zoya the way he always did—present, not invasive.

"You okay?" he asked at one point, voice low.

"Yes."

They both knew better. He let it go anyway.

When they left, the apartment settled again. The kind of silence you notice because you didn't earn it.

Zoya stood by the window, phone in hand.

Nothing.

She checked once more before forcing herself to put it down.

She opened her laptop instead—notes, deadlines, familiar shapes of normal life. Her focus slipped anyway. Her eyes kept sliding back to the phone like it might change its mind.

By the time she lay down, the ceiling felt too close.

Her mind drifted to a night she hadn't meant to touch.

One second the study was lit.

The next, it wasn't.

Zoya stopped mid-sentence, the rest of her argument vanishing with the light.

Darkness dropped fast. Not gradual. Not gentle. The room felt different immediately—closer, heavier, like the walls had leaned in. Her breath caught before she could stop it, sharp and embarrassing.

"I'm not scared," she said too quickly. Then, quieter, honest in a way she hadn't planned, "Except darkness. And... anything that moves."

Something scraped nearby. A chair leg, maybe. She flinched.

"No."

Her hand shot out, fingers brushing the edge of the desk. Papers shifted. Something tipped and hit the floor. She hated how clumsy she suddenly felt, how unreliable her body had become without sight.

"Where is the matchbox?" she snapped, irritation trying to outrun fear. "Why do people never keep basic things where humans can find them?"

Raiyan's voice came from somewhere close. Too calm. Mildly amused.

"You were very confident about thirty seconds ago."

"Don't," she said sharply. "Just—don't."

"So the lawyer," he added, sounding entirely too entertained, "afraid of the dark?"

"Raiyan," she hissed, "this is not funny. Stop standing there and help."

"Help how?" he asked. "I didn't turn the lights off."

She turned toward his voice too fast and hit the corner of a chair. The jolt sent a rush of panic through her chest.

"I don't know where you are," she snapped. "That's the problem."

Then he laughed.

Not politely. Not carefully. A real laugh—warm, unguarded, catching her completely off balance.

Her stomach twisted. "Did you just laugh?"

"Yes."

"You're awful."

"I really am," he said easily. "You're terrifying in arguments and completely useless without lights."

"I hate you," she muttered. "Just—come here."

Silence. Then—

"Why?"

"So I know where you are," she shot back. "Obviously."

"I'm right here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

She took a step toward his voice. Then another. Misjudged the distance completely.

She slammed into him.

Hard.

Her hands grabbed his shirt automatically, fingers curling tight like letting go would make the dark rush back in. Her forehead hit his chest. She froze there, heart pounding, suddenly very aware of how close she was standing.

"Oh," he said, breathless with laughter. "This is incredible."

"Stop laughing," she protested, mortified, still holding on. "I told you I don't like this."

"You didn't hesitate," he said between laughs. "You just committed."

"I tripped."

"You jumped."

"If you disappear right now," she warned, voice tight, "I will actually sue you."

"I'm not disappearing," he said. "You're holding me like I'm flotation."

"Because you are."

The panic ebbed slowly. Her breathing evened out once she realized he wasn't moving. Once she knew exactly where he was.

When she finally lifted her head, she could just make him out—his expression visible even in the dark.

Amused.

Open.

Unmasked.

And for reasons she hadn't understood then, that sight had made her feel safe.