I didn't move for a long time after he left.
The chair across from me was still warm, like his presence had soaked into the wood. The café noise returned slowly—laughter, footsteps, a barista calling out orders—but it all felt distant, muted, like I was underwater.
I told myself to breathe.
I told myself he was just a stranger with a talent for intimidation and a dangerous sense of humor.
I told myself a lot of lies.
When I finally stood, my legs trembled. I paid for my untouched drink and walked out into the night, half-expecting to see him waiting by the door. He wasn't there.
That should've comforted me.
It didn't.
The walk home felt longer than usual. Every reflection in the glass windows made my heart jump. Every passing car slowed my steps. I kept replaying his words in my head—You always sit here on Thursdays—as if repetition could turn them harmless.
My apartment greeted me with silence.
Too much silence.
I locked the door behind me, slid the chain into place, then leaned my forehead against the wood. Only when I was sure I was alone did I let my breath shudder out.
"You're fine," I whispered to no one. "You're fine."
I turned on the lights.
Nothing was out of place at first glance. Couch. Table. Shoes by the door. Normal. Safe. Mine.
Then I saw it.
My window—open just an inch.
I knew I'd locked it that morning. I always did. The habit was carved into me by years of living alone, by fear I never admitted to having.
Slowly, I crossed the room and pushed it shut. The latch clicked into place, loud in the quiet.
That's when I noticed the smell.
Faint. Familiar.
Coffee. Smoke. Something darker underneath.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
I hadn't realized I'd picked it up.
Unknown Number: You should double-lock the window. The latch sticks.
My blood went cold.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering uselessly as another message appeared.
Unknown Number: Don't worry. I fixed it.
"Stop," I whispered. "This isn't happening."
My phone rang.
I didn't answer.
It rang again.
And again.
Finally, against every instinct I had, I swiped my finger across the screen.
"Hello?" My voice cracked.
He exhaled softly on the other end, like he was relieved.
"You made it home," he said.
"How did you get this number?" I demanded.
A pause. Then, honestly—too honestly—"You gave it to a delivery app three years ago. They had a data leak. You should be more careful."
My stomach twisted. "That's illegal."
"So is breaking into someone's apartment," he replied calmly. "But you accused me of that already."
"I didn't accuse—you implied—" I stopped, realizing how ridiculous it sounded to argue with him. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you're in danger."
I laughed, sharp and humorless.
"From who? You?"
"From someone worse," he said.
"Someone who's been watching you longer than I have."
The room felt suddenly smaller.
"You're lying."
"I don't lie," he said. "I omit. There's a difference."
My fingers tightened around the phone. "If this is some sick game—"
"You lost your bracelet three months ago," he cut in. "Near the subway. You thought it slipped off. It didn't."
My heart thudded painfully. "Then how did you—"
"Someone took it," he continued. "Someone who likes souvenirs. I took it from him."
The word him echoed in my head.
"Why me?" I asked quietly.
He was silent for so long I thought the call had dropped.
"Because you're connected to something you don't remember," he finally said. "And because once I saw you… I couldn't look away."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving you tonight."
A sound outside my door made me freeze—a soft thud, like footsteps passing in the hallway.
"I'm not alone, am I?" I whispered.
"No," he said instantly. "But you're safe."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I'm watching the hallway camera," he replied. "And because I won't let anyone else touch what I've already claimed."
Fear and something darker tangled in my chest.
"I didn't agree to this," I said.
"You didn't need to," he answered. "Just like you didn't scream."
The line went dead.
I stood there in the light of my apartment, phone pressed to my ear, realizing the most terrifying part wasn't that he knew where I lived—
It was that somewhere between the café and my front door,
he had already made himself part of my life.
And I didn't know how to cut him out.