Page 19 of Ruin Me Gently

Blah, blah, blah.

Not interested.

Just another self-righteous prick with his thumb jammed up too many people’s asses, convinced the world owed him something just for existing.

It wasn’t obsession. It wasn’t some creepy need to insert myself into her life. It was caution. Protection. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. Even when I decided to start giving her moral support. From a distance. It was all subtle. Small. Little things to remind her that someone gave a damn, even if she didn’t know who.

Breakfast deliveries, handpicked rain lilies and gladiolus, a first edition of my favourite book, straight from my own collection. Woven between them, a handful of literary quotes I figured she’d appreciate.

And of course, I’d slipped into her doorbell feed. Pausing the live feed right as I got there, then scheduled the chime to go off after I was gone. So there was no chance of her running out and catching me in the act. She’d never see me. She didn’t need to.Ididn’t need her to.

I could’ve gone further. Hacked into her cameras, intercepted her calls, but even I knew that was creepy as hell.

The doorbell was enough. A way to stay in the background, to keep my distance while still learning her routines, the rhythms of her life—just in case.

I knew she was late to work almost every morning, slipping into the bookstore minutes after they opened, coffee clutched in hand, head down, cheeks flushed.

I knew when she took her lunch break, flipping between the same three cafes on rotation. Burritos from a hole in the wall on 5th. A wrap or sandwich from the deli on Market. Pesto pasta with extra Parmesan from the tiny Italian spot tucked between a bank and a laundromat.

She had good taste. I had to give her that.

That was how I’d learned Molly’s order too. Because I’d followed them a few times. Just once or twice. Just enough. And it felt right to do something small in return for someone who was keeping an eye on her.

Which is why today, I’d ordered for both of them.

It wasn’t about getting close, I knew better than that. It was about making someone feel good about themselves when they’d been handed the sharp end of the stick.

“Mr. Graves?”

The voice cut through the fog like a bucket of ice water.

Shit.

Our project manager, and the entire room, were looking directly at me. “Could you clarify your thoughts on the proposed timeline for the launch, sir?”

Think. Focus.

I cleared my throat. “Right. Yes. The timeline—”

I glanced toward the screen at the front of the room, trying to replay the last two minutes of a conversation I’d been half-listening to. Something about two months ahead of schedule.

Accelerating the launch. Okay, sure.

“It’s possible,” I said finally, folding my hands on the table like I’d given it plenty of thought. “But we need to be realistic about capacity. Launching the internship program ahead of schedule means shifting recruitment resources and dedicating additional staffing for oversight. I’d recommend piloting with a limited number of partnerships before scaling fully.”

It sounded polished enough.

Thankfully, the team were satisfied with my answer and the presentation continued. But I couldfeelFinn’s eyes drilling into the side of my skull, like he was waiting for me to slip again.

I didn’t.

The meeting wrapped up with the usual polite chorus of handshakes and goodbyes.

Finn’s voice carried above the noise. “Great job, everyone. Let’s keep up the momentum.”

Once the room quietened to only the hum of the projector, I pressed my fingertips against my temples, trying to loosen the tension clawing at the edges of my skull.

Get your shit together.

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