When You Stop Running

The Note

I didn’t sleep.

Not really.

I closed my eyes sometime after two in the morning, but every time I drifted off, I heard his voice.

You can keep pretending you don’t want me.

Then I’d see his face.

Those pale eyes.

That almost-smile.

The way he’d stood in my apartment like he belonged there.

The worst part wasn’t that Damien Cross had frightened me.

The worst part was that I couldn’t stop thinking about him after he left.

I rolled over and stared at the clock.

3:17 a.m.

I reached for my phone.

No messages.

No calls.

Nothing.

I should have felt relieved.

Instead, I felt disappointed.

That realization made me sit up.

“What is wrong with me?”

I rubbed my face and looked toward the bedroom door.

Locked.

I checked it twice before going back to bed.

I told myself Damien wouldn’t return.

I told myself I didn’t want him to.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

⸻

When I woke up, sunlight was spilling across my bedroom.

For a few seconds, I forgot everything.

Then I saw it.

A black envelope sitting on my nightstand.

My entire body went still.

I hadn’t put it there.

I slowly reached for it.

My name was written across the front.

Not my first name.

My full name.

Perfectly written in silver ink.

I stared at it for several seconds.

Then I opened it.

Inside was a single photograph.

Me.

Walking home from work.

Taken from across the street.

My stomach dropped.

I turned the photograph over.

There was writing on the back.

You looked tired yesterday.

Below it:

You should have called me.

I stared at the words.

I hadn’t given him my number.

I hadn’t told him where I worked.

I hadn’t told him anything.

Yet somehow he knew.

I put the photograph down.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

My heart jumped.

I stared at the screen.

Another message appeared.

Don’t be afraid.

I swallowed.

A second message.

I’m not here to hurt you.

Then:

I’m here because I can’t stay away.

I stared at the screen.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

I could block the number.

I could call the police.

I could tell someone.

Instead, I typed:

How did you get my number?

The reply came almost immediately.

You left it on a receipt.

I frowned.

Then I remembered.

The coffee shop.

Three days ago.

I’d written my number down for a delivery order.

He had been there.

Watching.

I typed:

You were there?

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Finally:

I told you. I notice everything about you.

I dropped the phone onto my bed.

My heart was racing.

He was impossible.

Completely impossible.

And somehow…

I wanted to know more.

⸻

That afternoon, I went to the coffee shop.

Not because I expected to see Damien.

I told myself I was going because I needed coffee.

That was all.

I ordered my usual.

The woman behind the counter smiled.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

I took my cup and sat near the window.

My eyes automatically searched the street.

Nothing.

No black car.

No Damien.

I looked down at my coffee.

“You’re ridiculous,” I whispered to myself.

Then someone sat across from me.

I looked up.

My breath caught.

Damien.

He leaned back casually, like sitting across from me was the most normal thing in the world.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“You weren’t paying attention.”

“Because I thought you weren’t coming.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“You expected me?”

I looked away.

“No.”

He smiled.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

I took a sip of coffee.

“What do you want?”

“To see you.”

“Why?”

“Because I missed you.”

My heart fluttered.

“You saw me yesterday.”

“That was yesterday.”

I stared at him.

“You can’t just appear whenever you want.”

“I can.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“I wasn’t trying to reassure you.”

He leaned closer.

“I was trying to be honest.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he looked at the photograph I’d tucked into my bag.

“You kept it.”

I stiffened.

“How do you know?”

“Because you brought it with you.”

I looked down.

He was right.

The corner of the photograph was sticking out of my bag.

I pushed it deeper inside.

“Why do you take pictures of me?”

“Because I want to remember you.”

“You could just talk to me.”

His eyes stayed on mine.

“I’m talking to you now.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

He reached across the table.

I instinctively pulled my hand away.

He stopped.

He didn’t chase it.

He simply looked at me.

“See?”

“What?”

“I won’t touch you unless you want me to.”

Something about those words made my chest tighten.

“You could have fooled me.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

His voice softened.

“Because I want you to trust me.”

I studied him.

“Why?”

His answer was immediate.

“Because I don’t want you afraid of me.”

I looked into his eyes.

“Are you dangerous?”

He was quiet.

Then he said:

“Sometimes.”

At least he was honest.

“Should I be afraid?”

“Maybe.”

My heart skipped.

“But not of me.”

I frowned.

“What does that mean?”

His gaze shifted toward the window.

“Someone else has been watching you.”

My stomach dropped.

“What?”

He looked back at me.

“That’s why I’ve been following you.”

I stared at him.

“You’re telling me you’re protecting me?”

“Yes.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then how do you know someone is watching me?”

His jaw tightened.

“Because I’ve seen him.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Damien.”

“I’ll find out.”

Something in his voice made me believe him.

Not because he sounded confident.

Because he sounded certain.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You broke into my apartment.”

His mouth twitched.

“Fair point.”

I almost laughed.

Almost.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“There.”

“What?”

“That smile.”

I looked away.

“You like when I smile?”

“I like everything you do.”

My cheeks warmed.

He leaned closer.

“But I especially like when you forget you’re supposed to be afraid of me.”

I looked back at him.

“Maybe I’m not afraid.”

His eyes darkened.

“Maybe you should be.”

“Why?”

“Because if you keep looking at me like that…”

He stopped.

“Like what?”

He held my gaze.

“Like you want me.”

The room suddenly felt too warm.

I looked away first.

He smiled.

⸻

That night, I found another note.

It wasn’t on my pillow.

It wasn’t on my desk.

It was inside the book I’d been reading.

I opened the page I’d marked.

A black note fell into my lap.

I unfolded it.

You looked beautiful when you were pretending not to look at me.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

Then another line caught my attention.

Tomorrow, don’t walk home alone.

My smile disappeared.

I read it again.

Then again.

I grabbed my phone.

I stared at Damien’s number.

I hadn’t saved it.

I hadn’t planned to.

But my thumb hovered over the screen.

Finally, I typed:

Are you watching me right now?

The response came seconds later.

Yes.

My heart jumped.

I looked toward the window.

Nothing.

I walked closer.

Rain covered the glass.

The street below was almost empty.

Then I saw the black car.

Parked across the street.

Headlights off.

I couldn’t see him through the windshield.

My phone buzzed.

Don’t open the window.

I froze.

Another message.

Please.

I stepped away from the glass.

For the first time, the fear felt real.

Not because Damien was watching.

Because someone else might be.

I typed:

Is he there?

A pause.

Then:

Yes.

My pulse accelerated.

Who?

The answer came.

I don’t know.

Then another message.

Stay inside. Lock the door.

I did.

For the first time, I didn’t argue.

I locked the front door.

Then the windows.

I pulled the curtains shut.

My phone buzzed again.

Good girl.

I stared at those words.

My cheeks heated despite the fear.

I typed:

Don’t call me that.

His reply came immediately.

You liked it.

I hated that he was right.

I sat on my bed and pulled my knees toward my chest.

Another message appeared.

I’m coming upstairs.

I looked toward the door.

My heart began pounding.

Why?

His answer was simple.

Because I’m not leaving you alone tonight.

I stared at the screen.

Then I heard three quiet knocks.

My breath caught.

I stood.

Slowly.

I walked toward the door.

Three more knocks.

I looked through the peephole.

Damien stood in the hallway.

His expression was different.

No smile.

No teasing.

Just cold focus.

He looked directly toward the peephole as if he knew I was watching.

Then he said quietly:

“Open the door.”

I should have been afraid.

Instead, I unlocked it.

And when I opened the door, Damien looked at me like he’d been waiting all night to see my face.

His eyes softened.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded.

He looked past me into the apartment.

Then back at me.

“Good.”

“Damien…”

“What?”

“Who is watching me?”

His expression hardened.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

He stepped inside.

“But I’m going to find out.”

He closed the door behind him.

Then he looked at me.

“And until I do…”

His gaze moved toward the windows.

“…you don’t go anywhere alone.”

I should have argued.

Instead, I whispered:

“Okay.”

His eyes returned to mine.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he reached up slowly.

He stopped before touching me.

Waiting.

Giving me the choice.

I looked at his hand.

Then at him.

And finally, I leaned into it.

His fingers gently touched my cheek.

His expression changed.

Something dark.

Something tender.

Something completely obsessed.

“You’re making this very difficult for me,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Because every time you let me get closer…”

His thumb brushed my cheek.

“…I want to stay forever.”

I looked into his eyes.

“Maybe I don’t want you to leave.”

His breathing stopped.

And for the first time since I’d met him, Damien Cross looked genuinely afraid.

Not of me.

Not of the person watching me.

But of how much he had already fallen.

He lowered his forehead against mine.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I mean it.”

His eyes closed.

And somewhere outside, hidden in the darkness, someone was still watching.

But I didn’t know that yet.

I only knew one thing.

Damien had come back.

And this time…

I had opened the door.