The Man Who Watched
Everyone warned me about him.
That was the first thing I learned.
Not his name.
Not where he lived.
Not what he wanted.
Just the warning.
Stay away from him.
People whispered his name like saying it too loudly might make him appear.
Damien Cross.
Twenty-six.
Beautiful in the kind of way that made beautiful things dangerous.
Black hair.
Pale eyes.
A sharp jaw.
A smile that never quite reached his eyes.
And a reputation nobody could explain completely.
Some people said he was obsessed with control.
Some said he had ruined every person who had ever tried to get close to him.
Some said he didn’t fall in love.
He consumed people.
I never believed rumors.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
I had always been curious about the things people told me to avoid.
Maybe that was my first mistake.
Or maybe it was the reason I found him.
It was almost midnight when I saw Damien Cross for the first time.
I was standing outside a bookstore, holding a novel against my chest while rain poured down around me.
The bookstore had just closed.
The sidewalks were nearly empty.
Streetlights reflected against the wet pavement, turning the entire street into a blurry mixture of gold and black.
I pulled my coat tighter around myself.
I should have called a rideshare.
Instead, I decided to walk.
It wasn’t far.
Ten minutes.
Maybe fifteen.
I stepped away from the bookstore and started down the sidewalk.
That’s when I felt it.
Someone was watching me.
I stopped.
The feeling crawled slowly across my skin.
I looked behind me.
Nothing.
Just the bookstore.
The locked glass doors.
My reflection staring back at me.
I turned around again.
The street was empty.
Almost.
Across the road sat a black car.
It hadn’t been there when I left the bookstore.
At least, I didn’t think it had.
The windows were dark.
The engine was running.
I stared at it.
Something about the car made my stomach tighten.
I should have kept walking.
Instead, I stood there.
Waiting.
The driver’s window slowly lowered.
And I saw him.
A man sitting behind the wheel.
Black hair slightly damp from the rain.
One hand resting on the steering wheel.
The other near the window.
But it was his eyes that caught me.
Pale.
Focused.
Completely fixed on me.
He wasn’t looking around.
He wasn’t distracted.
He wasn’t casually glancing in my direction.
He was looking at me.
Like he’d been waiting.
My heart skipped.
I didn’t know him.
I’d never seen him before.
At least…
I didn’t think I had.
For some reason, I couldn’t look away.
Neither could he.
The rain fell harder.
A drop of water slid down my cheek.
His eyes followed it.
Then his gaze moved back to mine.
There was something unsettling about him.
Something that should have made me leave immediately.
But instead of fear, I felt curiosity.
Who was he?
Why was he watching me?
And why did it feel strangely familiar?
Then I did something I would later regret.
I smiled.
Just a small smile.
Barely there.
His expression changed.
It was subtle.
So subtle I almost missed it.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes darkened.
And for the briefest second, I saw something almost like satisfaction.
Then the window rolled back up.
The car drove away.
I stood there long after the taillights disappeared.
I didn’t know his name.
I didn’t know where he was going.
I didn’t know why he’d been watching me.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about his eyes.
That was the beginning.
I just didn’t know it yet.
⸻
The next morning, I convinced myself I’d imagined most of it.
Maybe he’d been looking at the bookstore.
Maybe he’d been waiting for someone.
Maybe I’d simply mistaken a stranger’s glance for something more.
That was what I told myself while I made coffee.
That was what I told myself while I got dressed.
That was what I told myself when I left my apartment.
By lunchtime, I’d almost forgotten him.
Almost.
Then I came home that evening.
I unlocked my apartment door.
Walked inside.
Dropped my keys onto the table.
And froze.
Something was sitting on my pillow.
A piece of black paper.
My heart stopped.
I slowly walked toward my bedroom.
The apartment was silent.
I hadn’t left anything on my bed.
I knew I hadn’t.
I picked up the paper.
One sentence was written across it in silver ink.
You shouldn’t smile at dangerous men.
I stared at the words.
My fingers went cold.
I looked toward the bedroom door.
Then toward the window.
Locked.
I checked the front door.
Still locked.
Nobody else had a key.
I walked through the apartment, checking every room.
Kitchen.
Bathroom.
Closet.
Living room.
Empty.
Nothing.
No one.
I returned to my bedroom and looked at the note again.
My first thought was to call the police.
My second was to throw the paper away.
My third was the one that scared me most.
I wondered if it was him.
The man in the black car.
I turned the paper over.
There was another sentence.
But I’m glad you did.
I stopped breathing for a second.
I should have been terrified.
Maybe I was.
But beneath the fear was something else.
Curiosity.
Whoever had written this knew about last night.
They knew about the smile.
They had been watching.
I folded the note carefully.
Then I placed it inside my nightstand drawer.
I didn’t throw it away.
I couldn’t explain why.
That night, I barely slept.
Every sound made me look toward the door.
Every passing car made me wonder if it was him.
And every time I closed my eyes, I saw those pale eyes staring at me through the rain.
⸻
The following night, there was another note.
This time, it was inside my favorite book.
I hadn’t left the book anywhere except my apartment.
I opened it slowly.
A black piece of paper fell onto my lap.
You looked beautiful today.
My heart began pounding.
I looked around the room.
“Okay,” I whispered.
I didn’t know who I was talking to.
“Very funny.”
Silence.
I read the note again.
There was no name.
No explanation.
Just those four words.
You looked beautiful today.
I tried to laugh.
It came out nervous.
“You’re creepy.”
Nothing answered.
I placed the note beside the first one.
Then I noticed something.
The handwriting was identical.
Silver ink.
Perfect letters.
Controlled.
Careful.
Almost obsessive.
I should have been angry.
Instead, I found myself wondering what he looked like when he wrote them.
Did he sit somewhere quietly?
Did he think about me?
Did he smile?
The thought made my cheeks warm.
I immediately hated myself for it.
I shut the book.
“No.”
I wasn’t going to play this game.
Whatever this was, I wasn’t interested.
At least…
I tried to convince myself.
⸻
Three days passed.
No notes.
No black car.
No stranger.
Nothing.
The silence should have made me feel safer.
Instead, I found myself looking for him.
Every time I walked down the street, I checked parked cars.
Every time I entered a coffee shop, I looked around.
Every time I saw a man with dark hair, my heart jumped.
I hated that.
I hated that I was waiting.
Then, on the fourth night, I found the third note.
It was on my kitchen counter.
I stared at it.
I hadn’t put it there.
I picked it up.
You were thinking about me.
My stomach twisted.
I whispered the only thing I could think of.
“No, I wasn’t.”
A voice behind me answered.
“You’re lying.”
I spun around.
He was standing in my doorway.
Damien.
The man from the car.
The man from the notes.
The man I’d been pretending not to think about.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
He was even more striking up close.
Black coat.
Dark shirt.
Rain caught in his hair.
Pale eyes that seemed almost unnatural beneath the dim apartment light.
He looked at me like he’d known exactly how I would react.
“You.”
His mouth curved slightly.
“Me.”
“How did you get in here?”
He didn’t answer.
I took a step backward.
“You can’t just walk into my apartment.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
His gaze moved to the note in my hand.
“Because you kept it.”
I looked down.
The paper trembled slightly between my fingers.
“You’ve been leaving these.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
A pause.
“That’s the question you’re asking?”
“What else should I ask?”
He stepped farther inside.
“Why?”
I stared at him.
“Why are you doing this?”
His expression changed.
The amusement disappeared.
“Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You don’t.”
“I know you read when you’re upset.”
My mouth went dry.
“I know you pretend you’re not afraid when you are.”
Another step.
“I know you hate being alone, but you tell people you prefer it.”
I didn’t move.
“I know you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re nervous.”
My teeth immediately stopped.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“And I know,” he continued quietly, “that you’ve been wondering whether I’d come back.”
My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
“You’re stalking me.”
“Yes.”
He said it so calmly that I almost didn’t know how to respond.
“You admit it?”
“I don’t see the point in lying to you.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
His eyes remained on mine.
“It’s supposed to make you understand that I’m not pretending.”
I swallowed.
“You should leave.”
He didn’t move.
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
The word came out quickly.
Too quickly.
He studied me.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
He turned toward the door.
I blinked.
That was it?
He was actually leaving?
My chest tightened.
He reached for the handle.
Something inside me panicked.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
Slowly, he turned around.
His eyes met mine.
“What?”
I didn’t know.
I had no idea why I’d stopped him.
I looked at him.
At the rainwater still clinging to his coat.
At his pale eyes.
At the black note in my hand.
Then I asked the question I shouldn’t have asked.
“What do you want from me?”
His expression softened.
“Everything you’re willing to give.”
I stared at him.
“And if I don’t give you anything?”
“Then I leave.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He opened the door.
Then he paused.
Without looking back, he said:
“But you should know something.”
“What?”
His voice dropped.
“You can keep pretending you don’t want me.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“But you’re not very good at pretending.”
Then he walked into the rain.
The door closed.
I stood alone in my apartment.
My heart was still racing.
I looked down at the note in my hand.
Three words suddenly appeared in my mind.
Words I didn’t want to admit.
I want him.
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
But my heart had already answered.
Yes.
And somewhere outside, beneath the rain, Damien Cross was walking away.
Not chasing me.
Not forcing me.
Just waiting.
Because somehow, he already knew something I was still trying to understand.
I wasn’t afraid of him.
Not completely.
I was afraid of how much I wanted him to come back.
And that scared me more than anything.
