Page 3 of Love Me Stalk Me
I realize with a sinking feeling that it was around the same time my body started changing. As if his affection came with weight restrictions I hadn't been informed about.
I exhale slowly, the taste of disappointment bitter on my tongue, letting it go. I've learned not to push because he'll just act like I'm overreacting, too sensitive, too needy. I turn back to my plate.
And that's when I feel it—a shift, like the air around me has changed. A prickle of awareness runs down my spine, making the hairs on my arms stand up. I feel it before I even turn my head: that unmistakable pull of being watched.
Slowly, I glance up and lock eyes with a stranger across the restaurant. His features are striking—sharp jaw, dark hair, broad shoulders stretching his black dress shirt. He sits near the bar, one hand resting loosely around a glass of amber liquid, the other draped over his thigh.
As he shifts in his seat, something metallic glints at his collar—dog tags, peeking out from beneath his shirt. The sight sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Military. There's a quiet authority to him that suddenly makes perfect sense.
He looks completely at ease, but his expression is focused. He isn't just glancing at me. He isn't distracted, like so many of the other men in this place, half-listening to their dates while checking the time or their stockportfolios.
No. He's fully, deliberately watching me.
His eyes don't waver or dart away when our gazes meet. He isn't embarrassed to be caught staring. If anything, I get the unnerving feeling that he wants me to know he's studying me, memorizing me.
A slow prickle of heat runs up my arms, raising goosebumps despite the warmth of the restaurant. I should look away, reach for my wine, shift my attention back to Evan, let this moment pass before it becomes a tangle I can't unravel. But I don't—because for the first time tonight, I feel seen. Not just acknowledged like when the waiter took my order, not glanced at like an afterthought between phone swipes. But really, fully seen.
And not in the way Evan sees me now—as a body that's failed him, a project that needs fixing, something lesser. This stranger looks at me without judgment, his expression filled with nothing but pure, undisguised interest. It's been so long since anyone looked at me like that, I’d almost forgotten how it feels.
My fingers tighten around my napkin, the fabric rough against my skin, as the moment stretches longer than it should. The silver chain at his neck catches the light again, drawing my eyes to the hollow of his throat. I wonder absently what name is stamped into those tags, what identity they represent.
The waiter arrives with our check, breaking the tension with the soft thud of leather on the table. When I look back, the man is still watching, but something in his expression has shifted. A realization. A question I don't know how to answer.
Evan clears his throat, tossing his credit card onto the table like he's doing the staff a favor. "You ready?"
His voice pulls me from whatever strange haze I’ve fallen into. I drag in a breath, fingers curling against the tablecloth as I hesitate.
"I was thinking about getting dessert," I say lightly. I don't know why—maybe I want a few more minutes here, to steal another glance at the stranger.
Evan scoffs. "You don't need dessert," he says with just enough amusement to sound like a joke but not enough to disguise what he actually means. The waiter returns with the receipt, and Evan slides his card back into his wallet, already moving toward the exit. "Let's go."
I press my lips together, tasting the remnants of my red lipstick, swallowing any protest, and force myself to nod with the same polite, agreeable smile that keeps the peace. Three years of letting Evan dictate what I should eat, how I should look, when I should speak. Three years of shrinking myself in every wayexcept physically.
Inside the elevator, the air feels different—stagnant and still compared to the quiet clatter of silverware and low conversation in the restaurant. Evan stands a step ahead, scrolling through his phone like this is just another transaction he’s obligated to complete. He doesn’t notice I haven’t pressed the button yet, that my fingers are still hovering over the panel, frozen for reasons I can’t explain.
And then, before I can stop myself, I look up and catch one last glimpse of the man at the bar.
The doors begin to close on their own, sealing shut with a soft thud, leaving me staring at my reflection. My pulse runs faster than it should, thumping in my ears. My skin feels warmer than a second ago, flushed with a heat I can't explain.
He was still watching me.
And somewhere, deep in the part of me I don't want to acknowledge, I think I wanted him to be.
NOT MY BUSINESS. I MAKE IT MY BUSINESS.
CALLAHAN KNIGHT
The womanin the black dress doesn't belong here.
Not in the way the rest of the crowd does. Not in the way her boyfriend—if the narcissistic, distracted man sitting across from her even qualifies as that—fits into this overpriced steakhouse like he was born in a tailored suit and a boardroom. No, she's a contradiction to everything around her. A genuine presence. A rare authenticity that doesn't match the polished, soulless gleam of our setting.
I clock her discomfort the second I see her. The way her lips press together every time the man across from her says something, like she's biting back the urge to argue. I can’t figure out why I watch her. Maybe because it's something to do while I wait. Maybe because I've always had a habit of seeing what lies beneath the surface.
Or maybe because for the first time in a long time, I see a woman I don't want to look away from. She's beautiful in a way that isn't obvious at first. Not the sort of beauty that knocks you sideways the second you see her, but the kind that unfolds the longer you look—the kind that sinks under your skin and takes root.
Thick, dark hair, slightly messy, like she ran her fingers through it too many times on the way here. Big, brown eyes, expressive even as she tries to keep them guarded. A full pout, and even though her lips are pursed tight, something tells me when she smiles, it transforms her entire face.
She's curvy, soft in all the right places, but I can tell she doesn't think so. Can tell by the way she pulls at the fabric of her dress where it hugs her hips. She shrinks herself without realizing it. But she shouldn't. Because from where I'm sitting? She's impossible to ignore.
