Me: Okay. Where should I go instead?
Ty: The botanical gardens. They're public, well-trafficked, and actually scenic. I'll send you the address. There’s a new very rare flower blooming that is trending all over Tiktok. Something about vampires.
A link drops into the chat a moment later. Then another message.
Ty: And, Madison? Thank you for listening.
Those four words shouldn't affect me the way they do. But warmth spreads through my chest, settling somewhere deep and dangerous.
Me: You're welcome.
I end up at the botanical gardens, which are admittedly gorgeous. There are winter flowers in heated greenhouses, snow-covered paths that look like something out of a fairy tale, and exactly zero ominous government vibes. I found the plant Ty mentioned. It was featured on the cover of a dark romance trilogy. A rare beauty with incredibly sharp thorns. I record a quick video for my viewers, when I get back to my rental, I’ll add a photo of the book cover and the music from the movie soundtrack and post it.
Trying to make the best out of my time in the garden, I record several shorter videos throughout the space. I'm filming a walk-through, narrating about winter blooms and mountain aesthetics, when movement catches my eye through the greenhouse glass.
Dark jacket. Broad shoulders. Deliberate stride.
Ty.
He's not watching me—or at least he's pretending not to. He's standing near the entrance, ostensibly looking at his phone, but I know he's tracking me. I can feel it like a physical touch.
I finish my video and walk over, trying to keep my expression neutral even though my heart is racing.
“Are you following me?” I ask.
He glances up, completely unsurprised to see me. “Making sure you got here safely.”
“That's called stalking.”
His mouth quirks. “That's called protection. There's a difference. I was driving right by here, thought I’d stop and check in on you.”
“And if I don't want to be protected? Checked in on?”
He steps closer, voice dropping low enough that only I can hear. “Then tell me to leave, Madison. Say the words, and I walk away right now. No judgment. No pressure. I gave you a chance at the coffee shop, too. If you want me gone, I’ll leave.”
I open my mouth. Close it. My pulse pounds in my throat.
I can't say it.
I don't want to say it.
His eyes search mine, reading everything I'm not saying. “That's what I thought.”
“You're very sure of yourself,” I manage.
“No,” he says quietly. “I'm sure of you.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Before I can process them, he continues.
“I need you to understand something. This thing between us? It only works if it's consented to. Every step. Every rule. Every moment. Your consent or it doesn’t continue.”
“What thing?” I ask, even though I know. Even though we both know.
“The thing where you stop pretending you don't want someone to take care of you,” he says evenly. “And I stop pretending I don't want to be that person.”
My breath stutters. “That's very direct.”
“I don't do indirect, Madison. Not about this.”
