Married to my Stalker

Closer Than I Meant to Be

The scent of coffee drifted into Nova’s nose before her eyes even opened. Not sharp diner-brew coffee, but something rich and nutty, with a hint of cinnamon and cardamom, like luxury in a cup. Her lashes fluttered. When she sat up, the silk sheets pooled around her waist, and sunlight spilled across the foot of the bed in pale gold ribbons. Damian’s shirt hung loosely off one shoulder. Nova remembered tugging it on in the middle of the night, after sliding off his lap, boneless and breathless, and curling up on the couch beside him. At some point, he must’ve carried her to bed, of course, he had.

The breakfast tray on the velvet bench at the end of the bed was too perfect to be real. Fresh croissants still warm, sugared berries in a porcelain bowl. A glass carafe of coffee with steamed almond milk in a matching pitcher. A rose-gold napkin folded like origami. A single wildflower in a tiny crystal vase. Not the same flower as before, not the same vase. Nova sat forward slowly, her heart racing. This one had pale violet petals, freckled at the edges. Not from a florist and not arranged. Just… found. Plucked. Chosen. Nova picked it up between two fingers and studied it. She should’ve been unnerved. Instead, she smiled, just a little. The kind of smile that rose without permission and stayed, crooked and quiet. A secret.

Downstairs, Damian was nowhere in sight, but the stereo played soft jazz. Every light glowed warm. The house smelled like bergamot, cedarwood, and faint citrus peel, clean, sharp, controlled. The kind of scent she used to imagine rich people lived in. But here, it was calming and familiar. Nova was halfway through her coffee when her phone buzzed. Calendar reminder:

“Call your mom – 10 a.m.”

“Read 10 pages – 2 p.m.”

“Walk, the weather’s nice.”

Nova froze, her fingers curled tighter around the mug. She hadn’t added those; her throat dried. She stared at the screen, as if it might explain itself. She turned and nearly jumped. Damian stood in the kitchen doorway, sleeves rolled to the elbow, holding a plate of sliced figs and cured meats. He looked calm, sharp, like he belonged in every corner of her routine. “Morning,” Damian said, as if he hadn’t slipped into her digital life like it was his own.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Nova said, gesturing at her phone.

“You didn’t have to,” Damian replied. “I’m not trying to make your choices. I just thought it might help.”

His voice wasn’t smug. Not cold, either. Just… earnest.

“That’s not normal,” Nova whispered, but her thumb hovered over the “dismiss” button and didn’t press it.

“I don’t want normal,” Damian said. He crossed to her, placed the tray in front of her like a peace offering. “I want you rested. Writing again and alive.”

Nova swallowed. “You sound like you’re designing me.”

“No,” Damian said gently, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. “I’m rebuilding what they tried to erase.”

By late morning, Damian took Nova out. The botanical garden was hidden between two skyscrapers like a pocket of magic only city ghosts knew about. Flowers bloomed in neat geometric beds, perfectly wild and artfully restrained. Butterflies danced lazy spirals through dappled light. A koi pond gurgled beside a shaded bench. The air buzzed with the hum of bees and the warmth of sunlight. Nova didn’t want to admit how much she loved it.

Damian walked beside her, never in front. He bought her lavender lemonade without asking. Let her talk about her favorite colors. Took a photo of her laughing when a duck stole a sandwich crust from a toddler’s stroller.

“Don’t post that anywhere,” Nova muttered, cheeks flushing.

“Never,” Damian said, slipping the phone away, and she believed him.

A little girl near the fountain looked up and tilted her head. “He looks at you like a story he already finished,” she said.

Nova blinked. “What?”

The child had already skipped back to her mother.

That night, Nova found it waiting in her room. An antique writing desk. The exact one she used to blog about during her poetry phase. Mahogany. Gold accents. A small brass keyhole in the center drawer, like something out of a vintage Paris apartment. Nova stood frozen. She didn’t ask how he’d found it. She didn’t want to know. “I figured it’s time,” Damian murmured from the doorway. “You have words in you again.”

Nova touched the wood, and her fingertips trembled. “It’s exactly the one I dreamed about,” Nova said. “You remembered,” Nova whispered.

Damian stepped forward and kissed her temple, slow and reverent. “I don’t want to be the one who rewrites you,” he said. “I just want to give you the pen.”

Nova turned, heart thudding. She walked to the center of the room, breath shallow. Damian’s presence moved behind her, quiet but consuming. She didn’t flinch when his hands found her waist, and she didn’t step away. His mouth brushed the curve of her shoulder, soft as breath. “Tell me you don’t want this,” Damian murmured.

Nova stepped back into him. Deliberate, confessing without words. Damian inhaled sharply, like she’d knocked the wind from his chest. She turned and kissed him; no hesitation, no grace, no pretense, and it wasn’t surrender. It was hunger, reclaiming, raw, and desperate. Damian growled. One hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip, possessive and greedy. His mouth claimed hers, sweeping in like a storm that had waited too long to touch ground. Nova yanked his shirt off. Her palms roamed his chest, muscles flexing under her touch. Damian let her lead, for a moment. Nova’s fingers drifted down his abdomen, and he snapped. Damian lifted Nova like she weighed nothing. Her back hit the bed, sheets crumpling. Damian crawled between her thighs, dark and devastating. His mouth traveled, neck, collarbone, breastbone, down her ribs, until his lips met the inside of her thigh. Nova arched and gasped. His tongue traced a path so slow, so skilled, she nearly sobbed from the build alone. “Damian,” Nova whispered, breath breaking.

He didn’t answer, he devoured. Pulled her to the edge of the bed like a man on a holy mission. His mouth was relentless, Expert, and viciously gentle. Damian pushed her higher, made her come undone fast and hard, clutching his hair, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse. Her c****x cracked through her like thunder. When Nova opened her eyes again, Damian was above her, chest heaving.

“You’re mine,” Damian rasped. “Say it,” he whispered.

Nova couldn’t; she didn’t have to. He kissed her once, slow, deep, and slid inside her. One stroke and one breath, and everything unraveled. Their bodies met as if they were made for each other. Every thrust deep and controlled, his chest flush against hers, pinning her to the mattress. His fingers laced with hers, their breaths merging. It was primal. Sacred. Unforgiving. Damian moved as if he knew her, and Nova let him. Again, and again. Until Nova was raw and spent and shaking in his arms.

Damian didn’t leave; he held her. One arm curled under her back, the other over her heart, as if to shield it from everything the world had done before he arrived. Nova didn’t ask him to stay; she didn’t tell him to leave. Later, when he finally left, Nova couldn’t sleep. She wandered to the window, wrapped in his shirt, legs still trembling. The house was too quiet. Still humming with what they’d done.

Then she saw it, on the writing desk, a journal, and not just any journal, hers. Sun-faded fabric. A rip in the spine. The one she lost before everything in her life fell apart. She picked it up with shaking fingers. Inside, pressed between two old pages, was a wildflower. Purple-edged. Perfect. Her favorite kind. Her eyes scanned the open page. A poem she wrote during a breakdown, never shared, full of fear, silence, and a plea for peace. Under it, A yellow note in Damian’s handwriting:

You said you wanted peace.

I’m just giving you the life you deserve.

Nova’s knees buckled. She collapsed into the desk chair, clutching the journal like it could anchor her. That line, she’d written that line at seventeen. In a private journal. Never posted, and never said aloud. How long had he been watching her? How long had he been building this life? Her eyes drifted to the flower. Damian wasn’t just buying them. He was leaving them for her. One at a time, slowly, patiently, and she hadn’t noticed. Her breath trembled, not in fear, not even in anger. But in something worse, recognition. Because even now, even knowing what it meant, she didn’t want it to stop. “If you’re watching…” Nova whispered into the quiet, “Don’t stop.” She didn’t know if it was a threat… Or a prayer. But it was the truth.