Thoughts run rampant as I try to pin down any information about this man, but all I’m doing is reaching for straws because unless he opens his mouth and reveals his secrets, I may never know.
I quickly change into a shorts and tank top PJ set as Freddie climbs his ramp and nestles into a cozy throw blanket strewn atop my comforter. A moment later, I join him, turning my TV on that’s mounted on the opposite wall, putting a lo-fi music stream on for background noise.
He still hasn’t responded to my last text, and I’mdebating on sending him another or spiraling down a rabbit hole, where I convince myself that he got what he wanted and is ghosting me.
But I try to calm my insecurity down because, clearly, the man doesn’t lack effort or obsession. After he railed me in my office, he’s only going to want more. That man drips with possession and control. He’s finally got me where he wants me. He’s not going to run unless I tell him to … maybe not even then.
Slamming my phone on my bed, I stare up at the ceiling, frustration tensing my muscles.
To text him or not text him. To text him or not text him.
My patience wears thin. Grabbing my phone, I open our texts and read our last messages.
My Masked Valentine: I haven’t been able to think straight today, constantly replaying how perfectly you took me, wishing it could have gone on forever. Tell me I can see you again.
I’m so dumb for even thinking that ghosting me is a possibility for this man—unless ghosting means haunting and clinging to me for the rest of eternity, then maybe.
I responded back to him.
I’d like that.
My Masked Valentine: Just like? Clearly I didn’t leave enough of an impression
My body would disagree with you. I was still sore when I woke up this morning
My Masked Valentine: Good. A constant reminder of me.
Trust me, I couldn’t forget you if I tried
My Masked Valentine: I wouldn’t let you ;)
Even if I ran?
My Masked Valentine: I’d chase you
Promise?
My Masked Valentine: Oh, I promise.
What are your plans for the evening?
And that’s where the conversation ended. Radio silence for the last two hours. Did I make it too personal? I mean, he’s literally been buried inside of me. Asking about his day seems far from intimate. I highly doubt that’s where he draws the line.
But I don’t know! Because he hasn’t answered.
Slamming my phone back down on my bed, I groan audibly, feeling like a teenage girl with how much this boy is consuming my life.
Freddie waddles over to me and onto my chest, staring down at my face with what looks like concern.
“I’m okay, buddy,” I assure him, giving him all the pets and a few kisses on his muzzle. “Mom’s just being crazy.”
His tiny tongue swipes my nose, and my heart melts. My hand rubs up and down his back, and eventually, he returns to his hole in the blanket, nestling back in.
My phone vibrates, and my heart rate spikes. Withoutso much as an inhale, I check it, finding a new message from my guy.
My Masked Valentine: I was in a meeting. I’m sorry for not getting back to you sooner. I’ll make it up to you.
The only word to describe what I’m feeling as I read his text isunhinged. I instantly forget about the impatience that was eating me alive only a second ago, and focus instead on the butterflies now soaring in my stomach. The need I have for this man is becoming a problem—one of many that I have, but still.
