The line clicks dead.
I stare at the phone for a moment, my jaw tight.
I should go home. I should clear my head. I should put distance between myself and the actual woman who’s already too deep beneath my skin. Instead, my feet carry me down the block in the same direction she ran.
I tell myself it’s coincidence at first—habit, convenience, whatever lie helps me ignore the truth. But the truth is simple and absolute:
I’m following her.
I see her before she sees me. She’s at the bus stop, arms wrapped around herself against the wind, eyes fixed on the road like she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will. She looks small, fragile. Human in a way I haven’t let myself be in years.
Something tightens in my chest. Something territorial. Something dangerous.
I stay half a block back, leaning against a streetlamp, hands in my pockets. I watch her breath fog in the air. I watch her adjust the strap of her bag. I watch her tuck her hair behind her ear the way she always does when she’s anxious.
I shouldn’t know her tells already.
I shouldn’t even want to know them.
But I do.
The bus arrives with a loud hiss of brakes and a cloud of exhaust. Zatanna steps on, shoulders drawn in, head down as if she’s trying to make herself invisible. She has no idea how brightly she burns.
The doors close, and the bus pulls away.
I wait a few seconds, then turn in the opposite direction, heading for the parking garage. No one looks twice at me—just another man leaving work late. But inside, everything in me hums with restless purpose.
I shouldn’t do this.
But I’m already unlocking my car.
I shouldn’t follow her home.
The engine turns over, smooth and quiet.
I shouldn’t want to know where she sleeps, who she lives with, whether she’s safe.
I pull out of the garage and merge into traffic.
But I do.
I stay several cars back from the bus, far enough not to draw attention, close enough to keep her in sight. Every time it stops, my pulse kicks, and every time she doesn’t get off, something in me loosens.
She has no idea I’m behind her.
She has no idea she’s become an obsession.
Then—something prickles at the back of my neck.
A presence. A shadow.
I glance at my side mirror.
A black sedan has merged into the same lane, two cars behind me. No headlights. No attempt to pass. No deviation in speed.
My jaw tightens. I switch lanes casually.
So does the sedan.
