Ava didn't remember walking home.
Her mind drifted in fragments—cold air, blurred street signs, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding louder than traffic. She shut her apartment door behind her and pressed her back against it, swallowing the lump rising in her throat.
Damien's voice followed her still.
Look at me.You're trembling.I don't want you to run.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the memory only sharpened. His expression, quiet and unreadable, hovered in her mind like a shadow that refused to fade.
Ava slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor.
"Get it together," she whispered into her palms.
But her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Hours later
By the time evening settled, she'd changed into comfortable clothes, cleaned the entire living room twice, and rearranged her bookshelf for no reason. Anything to keep her mind from circling back to the way Damien looked at her.
A knock sounded at the door.
Ava froze.
It was soft, controlled, and far too familiar.
She hesitated, debating pretending she wasn't home, but another knock came—still calm, still patient.
Her pulse spiked.She moved quietly toward the peephole, breath caught in her lungs.
It wasn't Damien.
Relief rushed through her so fast her knees nearly gave out.
It was her neighbor—an older woman in her late fifties, Mrs. Hale, holding a small box.
Ava opened the door, forcing a smile.
"Sorry, dear," Mrs. Hale said, her voice warm. "Your package was placed at my door again."
"Oh—thank you," Ava breathed, accepting it with both hands.
Mrs. Hale squinted at her. "You look pale. Everything alright?"
Ava nodded quickly. "Just tired."
The woman didn't seem convinced, but she didn't pry. She gave Ava a gentle pat on the arm and shuffled back down the hall.
Ava closed the door and set the box on her table.
Her relief lasted less than a minute.
Because as she walked past her front window, something prickled at the back of her neck—sharp and instinctive.
She stopped.
The street was quiet. A few people passed by. A car drove off.
But that wasn't what made her skin crawl.
She felt watched.
Not by a stranger.Not by danger.
By familiarity.
Her breath hitched, and she forced herself to pull the curtains shut.
Her phone buzzed.
Ava jumped.
It was a text from an unknown number.
You got home fast.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Her fingers shook as she typed back.
Who is this?
The reply came almost instantly.
Damien.
Cold fear spread through her chest.
She hadn't given him her number.
She hadn't given him anything.
Ava stared at the message for a long moment before typing, slowly, carefully:
How did you get my number?
His response was calm. Too calm.
You left in a hurry. I needed to know you were safe.
Ava's breath stuttered.
She typed again:
Please don't message me like this.
There was a pause—short, but heavy.
Then:
That's fine. I'll come tomorrow instead.
Ava's blood ran cold.
No. Don't. Please don't come here.
But there was no reply.
Just silence.
A silence that felt like a promise.
Later that night
Ava lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The room felt too still, too quiet, as if holding its breath with her.
Her phone lit up again.
A single message.
Just two words:
Goodnight, Ava.
Her heart sank.
He wasn't outside.He wasn't knocking.He wasn't calling.
But somehow, he felt closer than he'd ever been.