Page 45 of Ruin Me Gently

Because nothing says ‘totally normal and not concerning’ like your unsolicited gift-giver arming you for combat.

And, of course, because apparently he had some mysterious brand to uphold, there had been another quote tucked inside.

‘Courage, Dear Heart.’ - C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

I exhaled slowly, flipping the keychain over in my palm.

Some people buy drinks. Some people buy pepper spray.

Love languages are diverse.

And to be fair, safetywassexy. Maybe he had good intentions? Maybe this was just his version of flirting? A slow burn? An insane, felonious, borderline horror movie slow burn?

Butdespite that, it had stopped. He’d disappeared. The shadow had become one with the shadows. And wasn’t that what I’d wanted? For the gifts to stop? To be left the hell alone?

So why the fuck couldn’t I stop thinking about Budget Phantom of the Opera?

I sighed down at Katniss. “Tell me this is insane.”

No comment.

But—God. Those dark, unreadable eyes. The way they’d locked onto mine from feet away. The way they’d widened when I’d demanded answers.

And the way his gaze had raked over me… Slow and intentional. Like he was memorising every inch.

“What if—hear me out—he’s really bad at introductions?” I said to Katniss. “Like, maybe he was going to introduce himself properly, but then he panicked and got stuck in a weird, gift-giving spiral and just… didn’t know how to stop. Because, you know. Social anxiety is a bitch.”

Or—crazy thought, Lilith—he’s a fucking stalker.

I should’ve called the cops.

Nope. Never mind.

They’d never been there. Not when I was a kid, screaming for help in a house that swallowed my voice whole. So why would they be there now?

And what would I even say?

“Oh, please help me, officer! A man has given me croissants and the tools to defend myself against men! Yes, yes, he’s very mysterious! No, I don’t know what he looks like! But I do know his taste in literature is impeccable!”

Yeah. That would go down a treat.

Was this what rock bottom looked like? Was I so destroyed, wired so wrong, that the red flags weren’t just blurred—they’d turned into some really pretty shade of green?

Maybe if I’d been given real love as a kid, I wouldn’t be sat here wondering if mystalkerwas just a misunderstood dumbass who never learned how to flirt.

Why me? Why this? Why now?

Had I done something to invite it? Had I missed a moment, a detail, a sign?

Was it random? Or had there been a reason lurking right underneath the surface? Something I’d overlooked?

Call it morbid curiosity. Call it childhood trauma. Call it a survival instinct dressed as a huge mistake.

But, to hell with it.

I needed to know.

I’d spent too much of my life being left with questions. Gaping holes where explanations should be. Filling in the blanks with‘maybe it was my fault, maybe if I’d just—’

---