3
VI
The back roomholds its breath.
So do I.
Cardboard presses into my spine. The air back here stays warmer than the open mall, trapped and stale. My sweat doesn’t cool. It clings. I adjust my weight a fraction at a time, careful with every movement. The boxes around me rasp softly, the sound swallowed by the mall’s low hum.
That’s when the pressure changes.
Not noise. Not motion.
Proximity.
My pulse jumps, sharp and fast, tightening the skin along my arms and neck. Something occupies the space just beyond the stockroom door. Close enough that the air shifts, thickens. Close enough that my attention locks onto it with paralyzing concentration. I look around for aweapon, something I can use to hold someone back long enough to allow me to run again. There’s nothing, only cheap, plastic hangers. But then I see a discarded fire extinguisher on the floor, most likely emptied out long ago.
But I don’t need the stuff it sprays. I just need something heavy and hard.
I count again. One. Two.
I stay still, teeth clenched, eyes fixed on the narrow crack between the door and the frame. Light bleeds through in a thin line, flickering yellow. A shadow crosses it, slow and deliberate, cutting the light clean in half.
Someone stops on the other side.
Fuck me.
My breath stalls. My chest holds tight, muscles braced, ready to explode into motion. Every instinct screams for speed, for distance, for the sharp relief of movement.
None of that happens.
Whoever stands there doesn’t rush. Doesn’t reach for the handle. Doesn’t test the door. The pause stretches, heavy and deliberate, long enough to tell me this isn’t guesswork.
Do they know I’m here? The question settles into my gut, hot and unwelcome.
I shift my hand against the floor, fingers splayed for balance. My muscles hum, wired and ready. That’s when it hits low, immediate, and entirely traitorous.
Heat.
Not fear. Not adrenaline. Something else. Something that has no business showing up here, in this place, with this man, this Rotter, on the other side of the door.
My core tightens. My thighs draw in without my say. My pulse doesn’t just race—it sharpens, narrows, focuses. I bite down hard, grinding my teeth until they ache.
No.
This isn’t happening.
The presence outside shifts. A boot scuffs softly against tile. Fabric moves. A controlled sound, meant to be heard. Meant to register.
My body reacts again, faster this time. Blood rushes, hot and insistent, pooling low. My skin prickles. My breath threatens to break loose, and I force it down, silent and thin.
Anger flashes bright and clean. At him. At this place. At myself. At the way strength announces itself without a word. At the way control hums in the air, heavy enough to suffocate. At the fact that some primitive part of me notices and answers.
I shove the response down hard, clamp it tight, bury it under focus and rage. So much rage.
The door handle doesn’t move.
Instead, a hand appears in the narrow slice of light—fingers covered in heavy rings, long, steady, relaxed. It rests against the doorframe, not touching the handle. Just there. Claiming space. Mocking me.
