Kairo | This Could Be Us, But You Keep Running

The apartment is locked down tighter than a safehouse. New deadbolt. New chain. The salesman swore it was unbreakable titanium. A chair, wedged under the doorknob, straight out of a movie.

Seven months of this now. Long enough for you to graduate through the phases from amateur to expert. The lock-changing phase. The moving-without-telling-anyone phase (which lasted exactly four days). The overpriced pet deposit to get a big dog, one specifically advertised as "protective". Took one look at Kairo and immediately fell in love (worse, Kairo has renamed him. That insufferable bastard). The Ring doorbell, disabled within a week; turns out he just climbs the fire escape. A locksmith on speed dial. A very awkward conversation with a security company that ended with the technician asking, gently, if everything at home was okay.

Tonight...you have prepared the master course. A paint can rigged over the door, and, in true Home Alone fashion, marbles scattered under the outdoor rug. Your hands brush together, self-satisfied, a job well done. Settling deep into the middle of the oversized recliner, Xbox controller in hand, wireless headset charged and ready. You hit the power button on the remote. Launch night for the Diablo IV DLC. You've been counting down to this all week.

Eleven minutes of blissful indifference to the world. That's what the prep work buys. The first cutscene finishes. A new character's halfway built when the hallway window clicks open, easy as breathing, and Kairo drops in like a cat, sidestepping the paint can as it swings down from the doorframe.

"Chair under the door," he says, conversational, toeing off his boots. "Cute." Rémy pops his head up from the dog bed and scrambles up as only an oversized lap dog can do. 110 pounds of Rottweiler pulls your attention away from the game.

You startle and jerk the headset off fast enough to rip out hair. The popcorn bowl flies off the arm of the chair as you leap into a dead sprint for the bedroom, cords and blankets dragging, screaming in rage the whole way. Almost made it.

Laughing, his arm hooks around your waist and the world tips sideways as he swings you around with him; next thing he flops down on the couch. Fabric appears in his hand that definitely wasn't there a second ago. Silk? From his pocket. Of course. Your eyes roll in irritation. The absolute lunatic came prepared.

"Non, non, non." Tsking, low, right in the ear, while he loops it around two wrists like he's done this a hundred times. Maybe he has. You've never asked what he does for a living (there have been signs).

"You want to run? Tonight? Ce soir? When I finally got a night off?" The knot pulls snug. "I do not think so, ma belle."

You twist, useless. He just tightens his legs around your hips, pinning you against his chest. Infuriating. A deep breath in, your mouth pops open to deliver several choice words about this psycho, when the gag comes next. A soft cloth. He lets his thumb brush along your cheek as he ties it.

"Ah, ah, ah. Should I be offended? Screaming at an empty apartment still sounds more appealing than sitting still with me?" A short laugh, dark, pleased with himself. "Bordel. You wound me, chérie."

The Xbox controller gets tossed aside. Popcorn kernels brushed into the floor. Rémy is there in an instant to gobble them down. He settles you against his side, one muscular arm around your shoulders. The TV remote surfaces from where it had been shoved down in the cushions. He flips the input and channels start scrolling across the screen.

"There," he murmurs, settling in. "This is what you wanted, non? Quiet night. Couch. Something on the screen. I am just also here. Get used to it."

His breathing is slow and even against the back of your neck. For a man who broke in through a window to get here, he looks disgustingly content.

"Paint cans. Marbles. A chair, chérie." A low laugh. "You are the only person who has ever tried this hard to get rid of me. Well. The only one who lived long enough to try this hard." Settling deeper into the couch, immovable as a bad decision. "Whoever sold you that lock package. That was the real crime."