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Whether he drinks coffee.

What he looks like first thing in the morning, when he isn’t sneaking out of my bed.

I want... him.

Not Hot Hitman.

Roman.

I change into my favorite comfy pajamas, then freeze.

I stare at my empty bed, dreading climbing in. Lying there alone. Again.

But I sigh and do it anyway.

Sleep evades me.

I grab my phone, hoping that scrolling socials or reading a book on the Kindle app will help.

I open Instagram to check a client's post.

After checking the engagement, I click over to my own account.

My own story distracts me.

I tap it, then swipe up to check the views.

One viewer catches my attention. james_miller4729.

Weird. I don’t recognize the name.

I tap on the account.

No profile picture. No posts. No followers.

He’s not following anyone, either.

Account created this month.

Interesting.

I go back to my notifications. Something about the username nags at me.

Wait. I could’ve sworn this account liked one of my posts earlier.

An old one, too.

But the notification is gone now.

A brand-new, completely blank account that somehow found me, dug through my old posts, accidentally—or deliberately—liked one, unliked it, and is now watching my stories.

A slow smile pulls at my mouth.

“Well, hello, James.”

16

ROMAN