The door chimed just after dark.
I hadn't looked up yet, but I already knew it was him. Something in the way the air shifted. The way the floor absorbed his footsteps without echo. The way my body tensed before I could think.
James.
I didn't know his name. Not officially. But I'd whispered it to myself in the dark the night before. It felt like it belonged to him. Solid. Unavoidable.
He didn't speak right away. Just stood at the counter like the night before, close enough that I could smell the faint, sharp edge of his cologne, something clean and chemical, expensive and cold. It reminded me of marble floors and security gates. Places I didn't belong.
"Black coffee?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
His lips twitched, but not into a smile. "Yes."
I turned for the cup, but I already felt it, his eyes on my back, not moving. Watching my shoulders, my hands, the way I reached, the way I tried not to tremble.
I'd spent all morning telling myself I'd be stronger today. That I'd stand up straighter. Meet his gaze. Ask questions.
Instead, I barely breathed as I handed him his drink.
He didn't take it right away.
"Did you dream of me last night?" he asked.
My fingers tightened around the cup. My stomach dropped.
"I… don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do."
His voice wasn't harsh. He didn't raise it. But there was something behind it. Weight. Like the truth didn't care whether I was ready to admit it.
I didn't answer.
He took the coffee from my hands, slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing mine again. Heat bloomed in my chest and neck, but not from embarrassment. It was sharper than that. Like I'd been seen with no clothes on. Like he knew every fear I hadn't spoken aloud.
"You flinch less today," he said. "That's good."
He didn't sit this time. Just dropped the money on the counter and walked away.
But before he reached the door, he paused.
"You still shouldn't be alone."
Then he left.
And I didn't move until the bell above the door stopped ringing.
I stayed behind after close again, pretending to clean the already spotless machines. My hands moved out of habit, but my mind replayed every word.
Did you dream of me?
The truth sat heavy in my throat. I had. But I didn't remember the dream itself, only the feeling. The weight in my chest. The hunger. The way I woke up flushed and wet and ashamed.
I knew what that meant.
The next morning, I told myself I wouldn't think about him. That I'd reset, act normal, focus on anything else. But the lie crumbled before I'd even made it to my dresser.
Because there, folded neatly at the foot of my bed, was a box.
No note. No packaging. Just matte black, with a thin cord wrapped around it like ribbon.
I stood frozen for a long time.
Then I opened it.
Inside was a coat. Thick, black, soft as water on my fingers. No brand tag. Just a single word stitched into the inside lining near the collar:
Mine.
I pressed my fingers to the thread.
It fit.
Perfectly.
I didn't wear it to work. I didn't tell anyone. But I hung it in my closet and stared at it for fifteen minutes before bed that night.
Something about it made my heart pound louder than fear. Something about it made me wish he would come back.
Something about it made me hate myself.
I tried to convince myself I was imagining it. That maybe the coat was from someone else. A mistake. A prank. A forgotten order.
But when I returned from work that night, the box was gone.
Not misplaced. Not moved. Gone.
No one had a key to my apartment. The door was locked. My windows too. There were no signs of a break-in, no messages, no proof.
Just the heavy knowledge that someone had been there. That he had been there.
I stood in the center of my room, trying to control my breathing. The closet door was cracked open just enough to show the edge of the black coat still hanging inside.
I hadn't put it away like that.
The hanger had changed, too. It was now thick, polished, cedar wood, the kind you'd find in a luxury penthouse closet.
My plastic one was nowhere in sight.
My skin prickled.
He'd touched my clothes. Replaced them. Rewritten the little pieces of my life without asking.
And I hadn't even noticed.
I sat down on the edge of my bed and buried my face in my hands. Shame and arousal warred in my gut, neither strong enough to kill the other.
What was wrong with me?
I didn't want this. I didn't invite this.
But I also didn't scream. I didn't call the police. I didn't change the locks.
I sat there in silence and wondered what it would feel like to see him again.
Then I reached for the coat and held it against my chest.
It still smelled like him.
He came in the next day at the same time. No words at first. No questions. Just that same quiet expectation, like the room was his and I was just catching up.
I poured his coffee before he asked.
He watched me, but something in his eyes was different this time. Curious, maybe. Testing.
When I handed him the cup, he leaned forward, not close enough to touch, but close enough that I felt the heat of his breath brush my cheek.
"Put it on," he said.
My stomach twisted.
I blinked. "What?"
His tone didn't change. "The coat. Put it on."
"I don't..."
"I know it fits."
The way he said it made something cold unfurl in my spine.
I didn't argue. Not because I agreed, but because I didn't trust my voice. I turned, went to the back room, and slipped it on.
It hugged my body like it belonged there. Soft, warm, grounding. A second skin.
When I stepped back out, he didn't smile.
He just nodded. Once.
"Good girl."
Something inside me cracked. Not like breaking. Like opening.
He took his coffee and left without another word.
But the next morning, another box was waiting.
This one smaller. Velvet.
Inside it...
A collar.
Black leather. Simple. Elegant. With a small charm shaped like a padlock.
There was no note. No demand. Just the object. The implication.
He wanted to see what I'd do.
I stared at it for a long time, my heart thudding so loudly I couldn't hear the city outside.
Then I closed the box.
And I didn't throw it away.