That's good.
Let him. Won't change anything.
I set the phone down and finish my coffee. I check the time. Early morning. She should be waking up soon.
I start another pot and pull out the oat milk from the fridge. The good stuff, organic, the brand she buys at that overpriced market three blocks from her apartment. I've been keeping some on hand for weeks—tossing it out when it expires and buyingfresh—along with the dark roast she prefers and the specific granola she eats for breakfast.
I track every detail. Every preference. Every routine.
I make her latte the way she likes it. Extra shot. Foam art on top because I learned how months ago when I was studying everything about her. The heart shape comes out perfect—a reminder of what she can't escape.
I'm setting it on the kitchen island when I hear her door open.
She appears in the hallway wearing one of my shirts. It's too big on her, hanging to mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up. Her hair is damp from the shower. No makeup. She looks young and vulnerable and mine.
She stops when she sees me. Her eyes flick to the coffee, then back to my face. Calculating. Looking for the angle.
She won't find one.
"Morning," I say.
She doesn't answer. Just stands there like prey trying to decide if running will trigger the predator.
Smart girl.
I gesture to the latte. "Made you coffee."
She moves slowly, coming into the kitchen but keeping the island between us. She picks up the cup and takes a sip. She shakes her head. "You know how I take my coffee."
"I know everything about you, Francesca." I lean against the counter, watching her. "What you drink, what you eat, what you read before bed. The route you take to work. The Thai place you order from on Thursdays. Your favorite patient at the hospital is Mrs. Kowalski on the fourth floor. You visit her whenever you have time. You bring her the same almond biscotti you buy from that Italian bakery on Mulberry Street."
Her hand tightens on the cup. "How long have you been watching me?"
"Since the night you patched me up and didn't call the cops."
The cup goes down on the counter. "That was months ago."
"Over three months."
She goes pale. "You've been stalking me for over three months."
"Protecting you. Learning you. Owning you." I let that sink in. "Call it what you want. Doesn't change what it is."
"You've been following me, learning my routines, planning this. That's not protection. That's obsession." Her voice shakes. Not with fear. With controlled anger. Good. I can work with anger.
I don't deny it. Can't deny it. Won't deny it. "Both things can be true."
She laughs, sharp and bitter. "You said we needed to talk."
"We do." I push off the counter. "Sit down."
"I'm fine standing."
"Francesca." I let the warning into my voice. Not loud. Quiet is more dangerous. "Sit down."
She sits. Slow, deliberate. Making it clear she's choosing to comply, not being forced. I almost smile. Even now she's trying to maintain some scrap of control.
It's cute, but it won't last.
