Her editor left an hour later, entirely unaware of the seismic shift her innocent discovery had triggered, full of enthusiasm about meeting "the real Leo" and already texting Zoey plans for a launch party before she'd even reached the elevator.

The moment the door closed behind her, the apartment fell into a silence that felt considerably heavier than the easy warmth of the past hour.

"Zoey," Leo said, gently, watching her with careful concern. "What just happened?"

Zoey sat down slowly on her couch, the black notebook still sitting open on the coffee table where her editor had left it, red ink glaring up at her with an absurdity that would have been funny under any other circumstances.

"That notebook," she said, quietly, staring at it. "Leo, that's the notebook. The one I found in your bag. The first day we met."

Understanding dawned slowly across Leo's face, followed almost immediately by something more complicated. "Oh," he said, quiet. "Right. I forgot you still had that."

"I forgot too," Zoey admitted, still staring at the pages. "It's been sitting on that shelf for months. I just — stopped thinking about it, I guess, once everything settled between us."

She picked it up now, flipping slowly through the pages she'd once read with such genuine, misguided terror — the "target" scrawled in red ink, the "strangulation," the "dismemberment" — words that had once sent her into a full month of amateur surveillance, now revealed, in the plain light of her editor's casual recognition, as nothing more sinister than storyboard notes for a children's animated wolf character processing guilt over a missing carrot patch.

"I spent an entire month," she said slowly, something bubbling up in her chest that was equal parts hysterical laughter and genuine, disorienting horror, "convinced you were a serial killer. Based on this. I hid in your closet. I bought sunglasses specifically for surveillance purposes. I moved into an apartment across the street purely so I could spy on you through a window."

"I remember," Leo said, carefully, watching her reaction with visible caution.

"I made an entire case file," Zoey continued, laughter and something more unsettled tangling together in her voice. "I analyzed your hand gestures. I thought you cutting a cake was you dismembering a body. I thought—" She stopped, a new thought arriving with sudden, sharper clarity, cutting through the initial absurdity of the memory. "Wait. When did you find out? That I thought you were dangerous. When did you actually figure that out?"

Something shifted in Leo's expression — a careful stillness, the specific quality of a man choosing his next words with considerable caution.

"Fairly early on," he admitted, quiet.

"How early?"

"The closet," Leo said, after a pause. "When I found you hiding in there with Mochi. I didn't — I didn't fully understand what you thought at the time, not the specifics. But I knew something was going on. The fire safety excuse was pretty clearly not the whole story."

Zoey felt something cold settle low in her stomach, the earlier hysterical laughter draining away entirely. "But you didn't say anything," she said slowly. "For weeks. Months, maybe. You just — let me keep thinking whatever I was thinking."

"I didn't know the details," Leo said, quickly, though something defensive had crept into his voice now. "I genuinely thought you might just have a crush and a weird way of showing it. I didn't realize until much later that you actually thought I might be—"

"Dangerous," Zoey finished, quietly. "You didn't realize I thought you might be dangerous. For how long, exactly, did you not realize that?"

Leo was quiet for a long moment, and the silence itself told her more than any answer could have.

"I think I started to understand more clearly around the rooftop night," he admitted, finally. "With the wolf figurine. The way you reacted — I started putting together that it wasn't just a crush. That you'd actually been scared of me, for a while."

"That was months ago," Zoey said, voice going tight. "That was before the hedgehog. Before the workshop. Before you told me everything about your family, about Nancy — all of that happened after you already knew I'd spent weeks thinking you were capable of murder, and you never said anything?"

"I didn't know how to bring it up without making things weird," Leo said, defensive now, something anxious creeping into his voice. "By the time I understood the full extent of it, we were already — we were already close, Zoey. I didn't want to disrupt that by bringing up something that would just embarrass you."

"That's not your decision to make," Zoey said, standing now, pacing, something old and familiar rising in her chest — not quite panic, but adjacent to it, the specific, sick feeling of realizing someone had known something significant about her and chosen, deliberately, to withhold it. "You knew I thought you were a murderer, Leo. You knew that, and you let me keep believing whatever I believed, let me keep being scared of you in some corner of my mind, because you didn't want things to be weird?"

"I wasn't trying to manipulate you," Leo said, urgency creeping into his voice now, sensing the direction this was heading. "I swear, Zoey, I wasn't—"

"I didn't say you were manipulating me," Zoey said, though even as the words left her mouth, some old, familiar echo stirred uncomfortably in the back of her mind — Adrian's voice, calm and reasonable, explaining away his own deceptions with careful, plausible logic. "I said you knew, and you didn't tell me. That's — Leo, that's still a kind of dishonesty, even if it wasn't malicious."

"I know," Leo said, quieter now, something stricken crossing his face as he registered how deeply this had actually landed. "I know, and I'm sorry. I should have told you as soon as I understood what you'd been thinking. I just — I didn't want to lose what we'd already built by bringing up something that might make you feel foolish, or make things awkward between us."

Zoey stood very still in the middle of her living room, the notebook still in her hands, feeling the entire foundation of the past months tremble unsteadily beneath her — not collapsed, not yet, but cracked in a way that made every warm memory of the past weeks feel suddenly, uncomfortably uncertain.

"I need to think," she said, finally, quiet and controlled in a way that felt more dangerous than if she'd simply shouted. "I need some time to process this."

"Zoey—"

"Please," she said, and something in her voice made Leo stop, watching her with visible, growing alarm. "I just need some space. I'll talk to you soon. I just — I can't do this right now."

Leo left, reluctantly, glancing back at her once before the door closed, and Zoey sat alone in her apartment, the notebook still clutched in her hands, feeling the entire happy, hard-won certainty of the past months begin, very quietly, to crack open at the seams.