Forest
At first, I notice the sunlight against my eyelids, like I’ve forgotten to close the drapes. And then I clock how heavy my body feels. How pleasantly worn out, from a blissful night of…
I jolt awake, panic surging through me like an electrical current.
I invited a guy into my house. I fell asleep when he was still here.
In my bed.
I sit up so fast my vision blurs at the edges. The sheets beside me are rumpled but empty. The clock reads 10:14 a.m. Images from last night flood my brain—Beck’s lean body, his ravenous kisses.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I scan the room. Nothing seems out of place. But that’s how it started last time. Everything looked normal until it wasn’t.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The silence in the house feels oppressive, threatening. I strain to listen for any sound that doesn’t belong—footsteps, breathing, anything.
“Beck?” I call out, my voice rougher than I expect.
No answer.
I snatch up my sweatpants from the floor, hands trembling slightly as I pat the pockets. My wallet is still there. I pull it out, count the cash. Same as it was last night, and my credit cards are in place.
But wait. Where’s my phone? My heart punches my ribcage when I don’t spot it.
On that shitty night that I try not to think about, the guy drugged me and then used my phone to transfer money out of my accounts, before he stole everything of value in the house.
I need my damn phone.
Moving quickly through the hallway, I glance into Charlie’s empty room. It’s untouched. The bathroom is exactly as I left it.
In the living room, nothing has been moved. The shitty replacement TV is still on the wall. But where the hell is my phone?
I practically sprint to the kitchen, relief washing over me when I see it on the counter, right where I left it. I grab it, punching in my code with an unsteady finger. My banking app opens without asking for additional verification. The balance is unchanged.
I let out a long, shaky breath, sinking into a kitchen chair.
My eyes land on something I missed in my frantic inventory—a plate on the counter with breadcrumbs scattered across its surface. Beside it, there’s a folded paper towel with scrawled handwriting that says, Stole a PB&J. Sorry!
I drop my head into my hands, and the breath I let out is almost a sob.
Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me? Beck isn’t some rando off the internet. Rationally, I know he wasn’t running some kind of long con to clean me out again.
The shame hits me, thick and suffocating. I’m not okay. I’ve spent the last ten minutes freaking out over a guy who was kind enough to leave a note about a peanut butter sandwich.
My phone buzzes on the counter—a text from Scully.
So? How’d it go with goalie boy? Don’t spare the details.
I stare at the message, not sure how to respond. How do I explain that the sex was incredible, that Beck was hot and eager, that I slept better with him than I have in months—and that I just spent ten minutes in a full-blown panic attack because of it?
Forest
He fell asleep in my bed like a damn rookie.
Three dots appear immediately.
Bastard. Call the cops.
Despite everything, I feel a smile tugging at my lips. I set the phone down and pick up the plate, rinsing off the crumbs. The countertop still has a smear of peanut butter on it, and there’s a knife in the sink that wasn’t there before.
