Page 45 of Jealous Stalker

“I’m not people.” My heart thunders, but I keep my voice steady. “I’m yours.”

Silence. Long enough that I hear the tick of an old clock somewhere in the shadows. Long enough that my certainty begins to fray.

Finally he steps back, breaking contact, arms folding as if he needs the barrier. “Not tonight.” It’s barely audible, but final.

My throat burns. Hurt flares, sharp and unexpected, but beneath it lives something older—every goodbye I never got to control. I swallow. “Okay,” I manage. “Then tell me when.”

He says nothing, eyes fixed on the floor, and the weight of it presses me toward the door. I grab my bag, fingers numb.

“I’ll go,” I whisper. “But I’m not afraid of you. I never was.”

I make it to the doorway before he finally murmurs, “I’m terrified you will be.”

CHAPTER 17

S.t.a.l.k.e.r

The night air is cool on my cheeks as I walk home. My body remembers his heat, my lips the shape of his mouth, but my chest is filled with a hollow ache. By the time I reach my bedroom I’m exhausted in a way sleep won’t fix.

I flip back the quilt—and there it is.

A single sheet of paper, heavy cream stock, his handwriting decisive and painfully neat.

Don’t wait for me.

I’m not ready to be seen.

The words blur. I sit on the edge of the bed, note crumpling in my fist, and let one tear fall—not for the mask, but for the fear behind it.

Because loving the man is easy. Convincing him he’s still whole might be the hardest battle either of us has ever fought.

I fold the note, press it to my heart, and lie down in the dark.

Half a heartbeat later, my phone lights up with a single unsent draft. My fingers hover, then retreat. Not tonight.

Tonight, I’ll let him keep his shadows.

Tomorrow, I’ll start bringing light.

Ella

Jules appearson my phone screen in a halo of Costa Rican sunlight, sunglasses perched on her head, damp curls clinging to her neck. I haven’t even said hello before the words spill out of me.

“All the late-night noises, the alarms I didn’t set—” “The hoodie guy?” she interrupts, brows knitting.

I nod. “His name is… Look, I don’t know his name, okay? He’s… been around a while. I trust him.”

“Ella, what did you do?”

Heat fills my face. “We…umm…kissed.” That’s all I can bring myself to say. Because hearing it out loud? It sounds nuts.

Her mouth drops open. “Youkissedthe man who sneaks into your apartment?”

I tell her the whole story: the notes under my pillow, the coffee cups, the pinkie touch in the café. Then I mention the hoodie he never removes, the mask he thinks I can’t handle. The way he flinched when I asked to see him.

Jules presses two fingers to her temple. “Ella, this isn’t romantic. It’s terrifying. You need to call someone—police, a counselor,me—anyone who’ll get him out of your life.”

Her boyfriend, Aaron, leans into frame. “I got a call at like…three a.m. a few weeks ago,” he says. “No voice. Just… breathing. It felt wrong. You sure you know who this guy really is?”

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