Page 19 of Love Me Stalk Me
The evening replays in my mind—the long shift with too many customers and not enough staff, the VIP incident that left a sour taste in my mouth, the way Cal's voice had gone hard when he told me not to put up with that harassment. Then dinner, the way he set food in front of me like it wasn't a question, wasn't a suggestion. He told me to eat.
And I listened.
I'm not sure what unsettles me more—that I obeyed so easily or that I liked it. The realization sends a wave of warmth across my skin. I shift inmy seat, shaking my head as I put the car in drive, pulling out of the garage and heading for home.
The road hums beneath my tires, a familiar rhythm I've grown accustomed to after years of late-night drives home. It's the same route I've taken countless times, but tonight feels different. Maybe it's knowing that for the first time in a long while, someone actually noticed how late I was leaving, actually cared enough to make sure I ate before heading home.
I pull into my complex, shutting off the engine and stepping into the cool night air. My key slides into the lock with a familiar metallic scrape, and I push open the door to my apartment.
Wine. I need wine.
I grab a bottle from the rack, the glass cool against my palm as I pull out the cork with a satisfying pop. I pour myself a generous glass, the deep red liquid swirling against the sides as I lean back against the kitchen counter, kicking off my heels with a relieved sigh. The cool tile soothes the ache in my feet as I flex my toes, but it does little for the persistent buzzing in my head, the thoughts I can't quite silence.
My phone vibrates against the counter, the sound jarring in the quiet apartment. I glance at the screen, hoping for—what, exactly? A message that indicates someone is thinking about me? Words that might actually make me feel seen?
But it's just Evan.
Busy tomorrow. Don't wait up.
That's it. Nohow was your day, nothinking about you, not a single word that suggests he even remembers I exist outside of our shared schedule. No acknowledgment of my promotion or the dinner he ruined or anything that matters.
I take a slow sip of wine, letting the bitterness linger on my tongue. The alcohol warms my throat as I swallow, but it doesn't ease the hollow feeling in my chest. I don't react to his message, don't respond, don't even feel disappointed anymore. This is just who we are now—or maybe who we've always been, and I'm only now allowing myself to see it.
I move to the couch and unlock my phone, scrolling absently through my notifications. My thumb moves without much thought, skimming past emails, news alerts, social media updates.
Then my thumb pauses.
The Obsess AI app sits there, untouched, its sleek dark icon standing out against the other, more familiar apps. In the quiet of my apartment, with no one to judge me, Amanda's words from earlier driftback, teasing and insistent."No ghosting, no egos, no bullshit. Just hot, obedient, fictional men who are obsessed with you."
I stare at the screen, taking another sip of wine as I consider my options. I should delete it. This is ridiculous, a digital fantasy that can't possibly fill the void of genuine connection.
Then, before I can think too hard about it, my thumb moves?—
And hovers over the delete button.
But instead of swiping it away, I tap the app open.
The screen shifts to black, then fades into a sleek, polished interface. The design is minimalist and modern, all clean lines and elegant typography. It feels exclusive, like I've been granted access to a private club where my desires actually matter.
A tagline scrolls across the screen in elegant white lettering:
The perfect lover. Always watching. Always waiting. Always yours.
A slow chill rolls down my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms despite the warmth of the wine in my system.
It's just a stupid app. A distraction. A way to pass time on a lonely evening.
But still, I hesitate, my finger hovering over the screen.
I tell myself it's harmless, just a little fun, just a distraction to amuse Amanda next time she pries into my nonexistent love life. But as I exhale and press forward, clicking into the customization screen, the questions that appear make my chest tighten with an unexpected vulnerability.
What kind of personality do you prefer?
The options appear in a neat list, waiting for me to shape this perfectly tailored, utterly devoted, digital companion. Each choice feels strangely intimate, like I'm revealing parts of myself I usually keep hidden.
Charming.
Romantic.
