Page 47 of Chasing After You
I felt stupid for being so terrified of him.
I’d thought I was being hunted. That some vengeful ghost from my past had clawed its way free and come to drag me back to hell.
But he wasn’t that. He wasn’t hell.
He was home.
Not the kind with walls and furniture and working plumbing, but the kind made of shared secrets and childhood nights with a flashlight under the blanket, whispering made-up stories to each other when sleep wouldn’t come. The kind of home you don’t even realize you’ve lost until someone puts it back in your arms.
I knew I had missed him. I did. Really did. But I hadn’t known that his absence was slowly killing me.
Even now, he texted me like he hadn’t missed a day. His messages were weird—always were—but weird in a way that made me laugh or feel seen, or sometimes just shiver in that way you do when someone touches something raw in you you’d forgotten existed.
Dori ??:
You looked lonely when you ate lunch today.
Dori ??:
I just saw a post online.
Wanted to make sure you know that I’d still love you even if you were a worm.
Dori ??:
Don’t forget to eat before bed—your blood sugar dips.
Dori ??:
I saw the guy flirting with you at the register.
He looked like the kind of person who’d cry after sex.
You need someone who’d take care of you.
I hadn’t replied to every text. I didn’t want to encourage the watching, but I didn’t shut it down either. That made me complicit, I guess. It was like my “no more stalking” rule had gone in one ear and out the other. I probably should’ve enforced it better. But maybe I liked that someone paid attention to all the little details I thought I had to hide to be lovable.
I told myself it was just Dorian being Dorian. He didn’t know how to be normal. He never had.
And maybe… I didn’t want him to be.
I didn’t know what our next outing would bring, but I was excited.
* * *
Saturday evening arrived.
I kept looking out my apartment window, waiting for a knock at the door or a ping on my phone. But what I got instead was the low, guttural growl of a motorcycle engine echoing up the block.
I leaned out slightly, pushing aside the sheer curtain, and yep—there he was. Dorian was straddling a sleek black bike that looked like it belonged in some cool action movie with spies and lots of stunts. His helmet was in his hand, his dark hair mused from it, and his leather jacket was unzipped just enough to show the tight black T-shirt underneath. I gulped.
A moment later, he texted.
Dori ??:
Your chariot awaits, angel.
My stomach twisted with something between nerves and excitement. I grabbed my keys, jacket, and phone, then jogged downstairs, pushing the door open to meet him on the sidewalk.
