The temperature in the parking lot seemed to drop twenty degrees. He hadn’t asked for my name.
I knew better. I really did. But fear makes you stupid, and isolation makes you desperate.
Then, one night, Mark crossed the line from haunting to hunting. He followed me into the third level of the Grand Avenue garage, his footsteps a metronome of dread echoing off the concrete. There was no one else around. No security camera pointed at this particular corner. Just me, my keys threaded between my knuckles, and the slow, sickening realization that he had cornered me against a pillar. the admirer who fought off my stalker was an even worse hot
Kyle was a slow-boil nightmare. We matched on an app. He was handsome in a forgettable way—brown hair, nice smile, a job in "finance." The date was fine. Boring, even. He talked too much about his portfolio. I let him kiss me on the sidewalk outside the bar, mostly because I was cold and wanted to go home.
And unfortunately, he’s usually devastatingly hot. The temperature in the parking lot seemed to
“You’re not wearing that.”
My jaw dropped. The man who had just brutally beaten my stalker wasn't a heroic passerby. He was an admirer. A watcher. A stalker who was simply better at the game. I really did
It twists the popular office romance trope by making the "doting" behavior a literal manifestation of a criminal obsession. Reader Reception
They’re everywhere. And they’re waiting for someone just vulnerable enough to believe them.