It's eerily silent now. I straighten from my crouch, listening. My eyes rove over the tangle of limbs and torsos, some in body armor, the word "SECURITY" screaming at me in bold yellow letters from the backs of their navy uniforms. Others are covered in white lab coats stained crimson, still clutching clipboards to their unmoving chests. Some simply wear jeans and plaid, their giant glasses askew on their noses.

In the end, they were all the same. Their guns meant nothing. Their muscles were useless. Their overgrown brains couldn't form a plan clever enough to save them. None of them could type a command into their terminal quickly enough to stop what they had begun.

I turn a half-circle slowly, scanning for anyone playing dead. Nothing stirs as the building to my rear comes into view. It's plain, unmarked, a beige cement facade whose windows only begin on the second floor. I regard it with contempt, and the warmth in my gut starts to bubble, boiling to an inhospitable, searing heat.

I step over a pair of immobile legs, drawn to the structure. I know someone is still inside. I can feel him watching me.

I take another step. I want to see his fear.

* * *

In computer science, an abstract method is one with a signature—a name and arguments—but no implementation. It's like saying to all living things, "breathe," and then leaving it up to the fish to specify that they use gills and the mammals to go about things with lungs.

The concept of a relationship is an abstract method. There are no hard and fast rules, because each one is unique, with its own implementation. You have to stumble through doing what feels right and, occasionally, what feels wrong because you don't know any better. There's no written rule that says you have to text your partner if you're all but missing, but when the opportunity arises it seems like common sense.

Or, you would think.

When I wake up, the bed is empty, only wrinkled sheets on Sven's side. He's usually the one who wakes up first, but I almost always wake too when he gets out of bed.

Now, though, the vestiges of my dream loom over me like whoever was in that building. Alone, without Sven's warmth, I shiver. Like ants crawling over skin I can't reach, I feel the eyes of that unnamed person watching over me now.

I sit up slowly, my gaze darting to each corner of the room. My own breaths are too loud for the stillness. The silence is too pervasive, too everywhere. Like even if I screamed, I could never break it.

A clatter from down the hall makes my heart leap, galloping against my ribs. Someone is here with me.

Then I hear whistling and curse myself. Sven always whistles while he cooks. Almost as if I've willed it into existence, a sweet, heavenly aroma wafts down the hallway.

Chocolate chip pancakes.

I rub my face hard enough to see spots as I let out a shaky breath. I'm going insane. There's no one here but Sven. His cooking is hardly cause for alarm.

I force the unsettling thoughts away, swallowing my fear. I am safe. With one last glance around the room, I rise. The slap of my feet against the cold hardwood floor echoes in the long hallway, and I shiver a little bit until the bottoms of my feet reach the same temperature as the floorboards. The pancakes keep me from running back for a pair of socks. On top of the pickles last night...I might as well be in heaven.

Last night. I freeze in my tracks as it comes roaring back like an unstoppable tide. The pickles. The stupid bar. My stupid coworker. Stupid me, driving my fiancé into a nervous wreck because he thought I'd met a violent end on a dark city street corner.

"Ronnie?" Sven's voice floats down the hall. "Is that you?"

I hesitate. I should answer. I should keep walking and greet him in the kitchen with a good-morning kiss. But I really want to run away and hide my shame under the bed covers.

Before I can decide which option to pursue, Sven's head appears in the kitchen doorway. I don't understand the smile on his face. He should be annoyed. He was too relieved last night to do anything but hold me tight, but now that we've both slept on it, shouldn't he be at least a little ticked that, for the head of mobile engineering, I have a pretty abysmal understanding of how to use an iPhone keyboard?

"Come here." He gestures with a spatula, and I obey.

The smell is stronger now. What was I hesitating about, again? I can't remember. Pancakes have the power to wipe memory.

"I made your favorite," Sven says as his arms close around me. He half-hoists me onto one of the island stools, where a stack of three pancakes already sits on a pristine white plate.

"It looks delicious," I venture. It seems like a safe statement—and the truth. My mouth waters as he sits down next to me.

"Just like you." He winks and I blush, but I don't shy away from the brief kiss he plants on my lips. It completes the circuit of my soul.

"I look like I belong in an '80s horror film," I grouch, spearing a pancake. "And not as part of the group of teenagers running from the monster."

"You underestimate yourself, Ronnie."

I twiddle my fork, shriveling a little inside. What did I do to deserve this? Someone so affectionate and caring? Someone who sees the best in me when I can't even text him properly? And what if he knew about the dreams? What would he think of me then?

"I'm sorry about last night," Sven says after a moment of silence. "I didn't mean to come off as controlling or paranoid. I just get so worried about you...."

"I know," I cut him off quickly. He's not the one who should be apologizing. "I know, because I would do the same if you went missing. Because I love you." I tilt my head and give him a small smile. "And I'm sorry for not telling you where I was going." Or that I love you like a wildfire loves oxygen. Why can't those words squeeze past my lips?

"It's that iPhone, huh?" he says lightly, letting me know that all is forgiven. I don't know whether to feel relieved or even more guilty. "Well, soon you can have Carlos do it, and I won't know the difference."

At that I really do smile. "I can't wait. I'll go crazy just thinking about it."

"Hmm." Sven tilts his head up toward the ceiling and pretends to think for a second. "You know, I think I might know something that could make the time pass for you."

I eye him, pancakes forgotten because I know that tone. I know that smirk. I know that way his left eye narrows just a little bit as he leans toward me.

"Oh really?" I ask, casually popping another bite of pancake into my mouth. I try not to grin to myself. Sven knows me well enough to know that when he wants something, he gets it—but that doesn't mean I can't make him work for it.

"Mhm."

He's close enough now for me to feel his hum in the air between us. Still, I hesitate. "I don't know," I hedge. "My boss doesn't like it when I'm late for work."

Sven chuckles, but plays along. "Sounds like a real slavedriver."

"Uh-huh." I can't keep the laughter out of my voice anymore. Luckily, Sven chooses now to finally kiss me.

"I think he'd understand," he murmurs, the soft puff of his breath caressing my skin in a way that makes me yearn for our wedding night.

His kiss is rough, like rocky terrain: Jagged, rough-hewn, thrilling in its danger. His lips claim mine as his hands dig into my hips, lifting me out of my seat and onto the table. The plate clatters out of the way.

I tilt my head back, but as soon as I close my eyes, a scene flashes to life on their inner lids: Sven's hands, hooking around my knees and yanking me closer as he stares down at me with eyes that burn ruby-red. His voice, distorted into something from a nightmare, saying one word: "Mine."

I gasp as his real-life hands slide down my thighs, inching closer to my knees. My eyes fly open, my heart sprints against my chest. My throat closes.

Panic.

"Sven," I whisper, but the urgent note in my voice sounds too much like a plea for him to continue.

His fingers wrap around the crook behind my knee.

"No," I breathe.

He pulls me closer in one quick motion, mashing me against him so that I feel his heat on every inch of my skin. My legs tense, tightening involuntarily around his waist.

I look up, breathing hard. He wears half a smile, his eyes hungry.

"Sven," I finally manage to stammer. "We should...we can't be late today. The keynote...."

I place my hand on his chest, intending to push him away, but he catches it before I can even try. His fingers dwarf mine, wrapping around my wrist and caressing softly.

"No," he says, and as I stare into his eyes, they start to glitch like an old television, pulling this way and that, flickering crimson in the cracks.

But I blink, and the illusion vanishes. His eyes darken with lust as he leans closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck and pressing himself stiflingly close to me.

Panic.

Don't panic.

"You're mine." His voice is muffled against my skin, but I still hear its possessiveness, like a Rottweiler guarding its territory. "Mine. I need you to know that. I need you to know how much I need you. How much I love you. How much I can't live without you. Tell me you know, Ronnie."

I take deep, steadying breaths. He loves me. He needs me, just like I need him. He's not a monster. Those are just hallucinations.

What is happening to me?

I grab onto him, this time pulling him closer to me. I link my hands behind his head and press him harder against my neck, willing him to kiss me there. He does, and I start to relax.

He is here. He is Sven. He is real.

I feel him smile against my skin as my muscles uncoil. "Tell me, Ronnie."

My goosebumps are for an entirely different reason now. The scrape of his lips against the tender curve of my collarbone is fire and ice and everything in between. My heart still pounds, but it beats for him as I open my mouth and take a deep breath.

"I know."