Stalking wasn’t one act.
It was erosion.
A slow, calculated unraveling of boundaries and breath, of peace and perspective.
Fear delivered in inches.
Terror in a box with a bow.
Each intrusion, each moment of silence after, carved away at her bit by bit. Until her world didn’t belong to her anymore.
She thought if she ignored it, it would die.
But silence hadn’t killed it.
Silence had fed it.
And now, it had found her again.
She turned toward the hallway.
Every lock checked again.
Every light turned on.
Every shadow chased down.
But the weight in her chest stayed.
She wasn’t imagining this.
She wasn’t safe.
Not here.
Not anymore.
She didn’t scream.
Not even when she saw it.
That was his Little Fire—composed.
Defiant even in fear.
He stood across the street beneath the edge of a rusted awning, shadowed from view, watching as the warm glow of her apartment flickered through the rain. The light bathed her in gold as she moved through the room, in slow, measured steps.
She was luminous tonight.
Still carrying the high of that kiss.
He had seen it.
Every second.
The way her body curved into Gideon’s.
The way her lips parted.
