Page 16 of Hunting Harbor

He kneels before her, touches her ankle where his fingers bruised her earlier. A silent apology. Or a warning.

“I’m not the kind you wake up from,” he murmurs. “I’m the kind you wake for.”

And with that, he begins unfastening the buttons of her torn dress—not to strip, not yet—but as if peeling back a secret.

She doesn’t stop him.

She just watches, breath held.

Waiting to see if she’ll survive her own fantasy.

This isn't me, I tell myself, but I keep adding more details anyway. My hands are shaking.

It must be from him. Implanted desires. The stranger at the bar, the way he made me feel. It’s the only explanation that makes sense, but my pulse still skips when I remember the come between my legs and the thrilling feeling that accompanied that. The way he leaned in close, like he had some beautiful, terrifying secret. Maybe he saw me the way I want to be seen, real, alive, and not just a scared little writer pretending she knows what she's doing. Lila says I’m too nice. That I give people the benefit of the doubt even when they don’t deserve it. But I’d rather be soft and a little bruised than closed-off and cold.

So I take that bruise, the danger of it, and keep writing. It’s me, it’s not me, and maybe it doesn’t matter.

My hands find the keys, typing in a frenzy. I sit with the laptop perched awkwardly on my lap, slouched into the couch as if it’s all just a casual Sunday afternoon and not some fever dream of a story that’s dragging me along for the ride. The words fill the screen faster than I can catch up. I’m the passenger here, clinging tight, holding my breath.

The masked man corners his prey. Her eyes are wide, lips parted as if to scream. He doesn’t speak but she knows. She knows what he wants, and god help her, so does she.

My hands can’t keep up, but they try. It’s like my brain is a snow globe someone keeps shaking. And I keep writing anyway.

It’s dark by the time I look up from my screen. I’m surprised by that, given it hasn’t felt like hours. It’s barely felt like minutes since I started.

The story stretches before me, miles of forest I don’t remember crossing.How did I get here?There are entire chapters, a whole world, a relationship that doesn’t even exist, spun out of a single breathless day.

The masked man is more than a stalker now; he’s a seducer, dangerous and... erotic. The woman can’t stop running, but it’swhat she wants. The pages feel like foreign territory, thrilling and terrifying. Stretching, my feet hit the ground as I walk for the first time today. I stand at the window, peering out at the night, feeling just as exposed. As if he’s there. Watching me. I close the curtains and retreat to my desk. It’s alive, and so am I.

His pursuit is relentless, but she doesn’t want it to stop. They’re trapped in a game, a chase that tangles them together in ways I didn’t expect. It’s darker than I imagined, and more raw, and I wonder where this is coming from. Certainly not me. Not the me I’ve been.

I should be terrified, but I’m not complaining.

Descriptions leap out at me, too specific, too visceral, unlike the neat little narratives that used to be my trademark. It’s a whole new world. Unsettling. But thrilling, too. It’s alive, and so am I. I read on, shocked by the sheer volume, my breath catching at the danger of it all. It’s as if someone’s unlocked some secret inside my brain and now the words won’t stop coming.

But it’s all fiction.Right?

There’s a flutter in my chest that isn’t fear at all.

I’ve never written like this. I’ve never felt like this. Where did it come from? I save my work, clicking that little button until my screen almost freezes, and start a new chapter.His breath on her neck. His hand at her throat.

The thrill of breaking through the block pushes my fingers faster and faster, outpacing the doubt in my mind.

Gone are the days of cowboys and ranches…

I’ve found my muse and have no intention of stopping.

Chapter Seven

Kairo

Islipinsidewhileshe dreams, testing the door and lucky for me, she didn’t dead bolt it tonight, her trust making it easy to invade. Maybe she wanted me to come back. Maybe that’s why she didn’t lock it.

Harbor wants me to fuck her, wants me to take her, and that makes me hard. She wants me to make her feel alive. I ghost over the hardwood, my shoes silent as I breathe in her space and pretend it’s her scent, her body, her love I inhale. A quick check on the feed confirms she’s tucked in bed. Sheets made for one. I linger in the living room, just taking in the way she lives. Acknowledging her short-comings and knowing I’ll be able to live with them.

I live for these quiet moments. The ones where there’s no sound, just us, existing in peace.

Ever since the night at the bar, I couldn’t stop thinking about her excitement, the way her cheeks flushed when she told me what ‘he’ did. I’ve wanted to be inside her ever since, but I’m not quite ready to give up my control.

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