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Forbidden fruit is some sexy-ass fruit. I don’t make the rules.

I also like that when she says she’s going to do something, she does it. Her schedules are down to the minute. She’s predictable—no, she’s dependable.

Or at least she was.

I glance at my phone again. Goddamn it, stop looking. I ignore the brief break in our messaging. It’s probably nothing . . . but that doesn’t stop it from needling in my subconscious.

Normally we text back and forth throughout the day. Saturday was like that; she had me checking my phone between every client. It was our usual stuff, dumb jokes, a few memes, some heavy flirting—thanks to me.

Sunday things slowed down a bit. Then Monday got worse, and today we’re firmly in our minimalist period. Her playful snark has disappeared, along with the emojis she often punctuated her messages with. I get it, people are busy, but I spent my childhood reading adults like fucking weather patterns—you learn real quick when things turn stormy, because the alternative could be a backhand to the cheek or worse, a transfer—not something to gamble with.

I could do the mature thing here, respect her boundaries, mind my business, take her at her word when she says she’s just tired or busy with work, or . . . I could traipse through her walls like a ghost and snoop around a bit. Guess which one I pick?

Besides, Tuesdays are her NA meetings, she’s not even using her apartment.

The mansion is quiet when I slip through the side entrance and take the stairs two at a time, and head down my personal hallway to the panel that pops open without making any noise. The hall smells like old dust and ancient wood, but as soon as I crawl through the small door, everything smells like her, that perfect blend of jasmine and pear.

Her space instantly calms my nervous system. Bed made, pillows precise. Normally I mess with them because it’s fun fucking with her, but not today. Her shoes are aligned just so, however, her laptop is missing, which means I can’t check her browsing history and that annoys the hell out of me. Beyond that, nothing is out of place. In her bedroom, I take my time checking things without touching them, letting my old foster kid habits kick in. I open the small closet in the corner. Jeans hanging in a row, sweaters neatly stacked on a shelf. A stacked washer and dryer unit. Then . . . a red cloak. I jerk the hanger forward. It’s her Halloween costume.

“Of course you’re going as Little Red Riding Hood.”

Wouldn’t be Anna if it weren’t completely on theme—wandering through the woods, unaware she’s being watched by a wolf. Spectacular symbolism, no notes.

It’s noon on Wednesday and she hasn’t texted me in twenty-four hours, which is impressive, honestly. I stuff my phone back in my pocket and drop into the chair at my workstation, staring at the ceiling. In an era when asses can text and make calls by accident, total silence takes serious commitment.

No messages, no memes, nothing.

Out-fucking-standing.

My brain, being the incredibly healthy and well-adjusted organ it is, immediately begins cycling through every worst-case scenario. She’s grown tired of me. She’s decided I’m annoying. She’s been replaced by a pod person. She’s been shot into space. Car accident. Witch turned her into a cat—all the greatest hits.

My stomach growls, but I’m not hungry. Hey, maybe I can spend my lunch delving into my abandonment issues.

Normally tattooing is the one thing that shuts my thoughts up, but today my anxiety is maxed. On a scale from one to ten, I’m somewhere around holy shitballs. Machines buzz steadily around me, and I breathe in the scent of disinfectant and stencil solution as if it’s some kind of aromatherapy.

I force myself to go through the motions, prepping my station for my next client.

An hour later, I’m hunched over some dude’s triceps, pulling a long clean line through the stencil. My hands are steady like always. I focus on the depth, the rhythm, the shading, forcing everything else to the back, but it makes no difference. Inside, my thoughts are hosting an emotional apocalypse and they’ve invited all my old demons from childhood. It’s been a long fucking time since I’ve had this shit creep up on me.

This is why I don’t date. This exact thing. The slow, uneasy feeling of someone losing interest and there’s nothing you can do about it. That’s just a fact of life, people leave. Sometimes they’re nice about it. Sometimes they’re not. Sometimes they say it’s not your fault, but it doesn’t fucking matter when the end result is all the same. You’re still left standing there with a black trash bag of belongings while someone explains why they can’t keep you.

Over time you learn to expect it. The sooner that happens, the easier it is. You adapt and move on. You stop putting yourself in positions where people can reject you. Observe first, trust later, if ever. Watching someone allows me to understand them without the risk of conflict, without disruption, without hearing “This isn’t working.”

Anna was different, though; she didn’t feel like a risk. Which, in hindsight, was probably my first mistake. The dark humor, the sarcasm, the way she also kept people at arm’s length—she was supposed to get it.

The machine buzzes, and I wipe the smear of ink and continue tattooing while working through these old feelings. After all, they don’t seem to be going anywhere. I developed a soft spot for underdogs at an early age. I didn’t let the older kids pick on the younger ones, which often resulted in fights and aggression, but they deserved it.

I think that’s why I’ve never experienced guilt when spying on Anna; it always felt like I was keeping watch over someone who deserved to be safe. Part of me wants to be irritated, which would be easier. Anger is simple.

I dip into the ink again. Slow. Precise. Steady. Because the thing is, as much as my childhood programmed my brain to interpret her silence as rejection, my gut says there’s something else going on. Something unrelated to me. It doesn’t make sense why she would suddenly withdraw into herself. We were good on Saturday, even after the date. It wasn’t like I scared her off.

When I’m finished, my client sits up and inspects my work in the mirror before I wrap it up. “Damn,” he says, “That’s sick.”

“Thanks, man.”

He pays, thanks me, and leaves.

My impulse is to go dig through her apartment, dump out every drawer, scour every inch of her browser history, find out what’s going on. She mentioned some tension with her brother, maybe it’s private. Hell, maybe she really is busy with work and it’s that simple.