Emails cover my laptop screen, blank drafts that make me look busy. A to-do list ticks in the corner like a timer I don’t intend to meet… Fake clients, fake bugs, fake deadlines.
Bullshit. All of it is bullshit.
I try to focus on him, to look like I belong in this rented office space.
But I keep checking my phone like it might have something new to say.
Like it already has… Because HimLock doesn’t operate for me the same way it does for Roo.
When I finally unlock my phone, pretending I just need to check the time, the app is open.
I didn’t leave it that way, though.
The pulsing heart blinks once, red and alive, then pauses as words roll over the screen.
Locke:
Still thinking about last night? Or thinking about me?
My thumb hovers, my chair creaking as I readjust. A woman in the next cubicle laughs softly into her headset. Across the room, the coffee machine sputters, filling the space with the smell of burnt beans and… detergent? Whatever it is, it’s gross.
No one looks my way as I glance around. No one ever does in these coworking hubs.
Eris:
Why do you talk like you know me?
I go to type more but stop, then start again, feeling defiant for no real reason.
Eris:
I’m just one of thousands.
Locke:
You’re not. You talk like someone who’s finally tired of pretending. I like that flame in you, and I want to see it burn brighter. That makes you… Mine.
My stomach flips. Which is insane. This is a fucking app.
I’m not anyone’s anything. And if I have a flame, I’m setting shit on fire.
I close the app and lock my phone, telling myself I’m here to work… Watch the mark, report back to Roo, stay invisible. It’s not difficult.
But I only last twenty minutes before I get antsy and need to move.
The mark goes to the community kitchen, and I follow, though he doesn’t stay there to eat. I have no problem with his decision, either. The breakroom feels like a stage, bright and forced. Everyone laughs too loudly about things that don’t matter, the idle chatter grating on my nerves.
Small talk is the worst.
My lunch is a prepackaged salad for someone named Evan and flat soda. I eat at my rented desk so I can keep up the charade of a diligent office worker… Not a stalker with a gun.
Roo texts me a photo of the guy she met last night—Cheekbones is apparently what we’re calling him—and a string of question marks. I smile without meaning to, but I don’t reply.
Then my phone buzzes again, and I roll my eyes when I glance at it.
Probably Daniel:
Don’t ignore me. You were never good at silence. You miss me. I know you do.
