The coat was gone.
Not stolen, not misplaced. Just... missing. I knew where I'd left it, hung inside the closet, zipper pulled halfway up, the lining still faintly warm from the last time I'd held it. Now there was only space. A hollow where something heavy used to be.
I stood in front of the open closet longer than I should have, half-dressed for work, one shoe off. Something cold settled beneath my skin, like I'd been touched without knowing it. Not a scream, not a panic, just that subtle, sick pull in the gut that tells you something about your body isn't yours anymore.
James had been here.
He hadn't taken anything else. The apartment looked untouched. But I knew. I felt it in the way the air didn't move right. In the way my spine tensed just walking past the bedroom door. He'd come in while I slept. Watched me. Maybe stood there, inches from my bed.
And he'd taken the coat back.
I didn't know what that meant.
But I still showed up to work that morning.
Still poured drinks for strangers. Still smiled too much, too quietly, like I had something to apologize for.
And when he walked in, hours later, silent as always, I didn't run.
I just met his eyes.
For the first time, I let him see the question. I didn't ask it out loud. Didn't accuse. But it was there, clear in the way my fingers curled around the edge of the counter.
He held my gaze for too long.
Then he reached behind the counter, where the employees weren't allowed. Where he wasn't supposed to go.
And he placed the coat back down.
Folded.
Clean.
A single black velvet ribbon now looped around it, tied in a bow. No tag. No message. Just the unmistakable scent of him soaked into the fabric.
I didn't speak. I couldn't. Not even when he leaned in just enough to say:
"You don't lose what I give you. Not without permission."
Then he left, like he hadn't just rewritten the rules.
And I stood there, still holding the counter like it might be the only thing keeping me upright.
I didn't wear the coat again.
Not because I didn't want to. Not because I feared him. Not exactly. But because the ribbon was still there, and I couldn't bring myself to untie it. It sat folded at the foot of my bed like a gift I hadn't earned. Like a promise that came with strings I wasn't ready to pull.
I didn't tell anyone. Who would I tell? That a man I never invited into my home was breaking in, leaving me clothes, marking them with velvet and scent and silence? That I didn't scream, didn't report him, didn't move?
I started wearing more makeup. Started brushing my straight blonde hair more carefully, letting it fall down my back the way he always watched. My lips got darker. My smile smaller.
I was becoming something. I just didn't know what.
The day passed slow. I burned a batch of muffins, got screamed at by the manager, dropped a full cup of chai in front of a child. Everything felt like it was vibrating wrong.
And then he returned.
Same time. Same spot.
No words.
But this time, when I looked up, he wasn't at the back table. He was at the bar. At the counter. At my counter.
I was alone up front.
And he was watching me again, but not like usual. His eyes didn't roam. They pinned.
"Kristina," he said.
It was the first time he'd said my name.
I froze. Not visibly. Just inside. Just enough to forget how to breathe.
He nodded toward the espresso machine.
"Make it."
I knew what he meant. Black. Extra shot. Sugarless.
My hands moved before my mind caught up. My fingers fumbled the buttons. Steam hissed too loud.
"You've been good," he said quietly. "I like that."
My breath hitched.
"I don't know what you mean," I lied.
He tilted his head. "That's alright."
Then he dropped something next to the register.
A little silver charm. A key.
No explanation.
Then he turned and left again.
And this time I didn't hold onto the counter.
I held onto the key.
I didn't sleep that night.
The key burned in my palm even when I set it on the dresser. I kept staring at it, wondering what it opened. Wondering what it meant. Was it a message? An invitation? A test?
Some small, rational part of me whispered that I should throw it away. That I should tell someone. Report him. Scream, finally. But that part had been quiet for a long time. I'd spent years learning how to stay silent. James didn't teach me that. He just knew it.
He knew how to read me.
Knew how to feed the parts of me no one else even acknowledged.
When morning came, I wrapped the key in a tissue and hid it in my bra. I kept it against my skin, like I needed to protect it from sunlight. Or maybe from myself.
I didn't see him for two days.
Each hour that passed made me more aware of my body. The way I moved. The way I looked when I smiled at customers. I wondered if he was still watching. If he had stopped. If I had disappointed him.
The coat stayed on my bed. The ribbon never moved.
Then came the envelope.
Taped to the outside of my apartment door. Plain white. No stamp. No return address.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. No handwriting. Just a photograph.
Me.
Taken from inside my apartment.
I was asleep. Mouth slightly open. Blonde hair sprawled over the pillow. My fingers curled beneath my chin like I was praying in my dreams.
I stared at it for what felt like hours. Until I could no longer pretend that any part of this was normal. That he wasn't dangerous. That I wasn't scared.
But I wasn't scared of him.
I was scared of how much I wanted this.
Wanted him.
Wanted to know what came next.
The apartment had never felt so loud.
Every creak of the pipes. Every hum of the fridge. Every rustle of wind against the windows made me flinch. I wasn't waiting for something to happen. I was waiting for myself to do something about it.
I kept the photograph tucked beneath my mattress.
Not in shame. Not even out of fear.
But because it was mine. The first time anyone had ever seen me like that and still wanted to keep looking.
James wasn't like the others. He didn't ask. He didn't flatter. He took, but somehow made me feel like I'd given it to him. Like I wanted him to.
And maybe I did.
That night, I unlocked the front door and left it cracked.
Just enough to let him in.
Just enough to make sure he knew he was welcome.
I didn't light candles. I didn't wear lingerie. I wasn't that kind of fantasy.
I just laid there. Pale legs tucked beneath the covers. Hair brushed and left loose over the pillows. Skin warm and throat bare.
I kept my back to the door.
And waited.
The door never creaked.
The lock never clicked.
But he came.
I felt it before I heard him. That same shift in the air. The way it thickened. Stilled.
He didn't speak.
Didn't touch me.
He just sat on the edge of the bed. His weight barely registered. But his breath did. Warm against the back of my neck.
I swallowed. My lips parted. My thighs pressed tighter together beneath the sheet.
Then he whispered:
"There's no going back after this."
I didn't answer.
I just let him stay.