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The entire campus treats them as inevitable, as though Alina belongs to Sergei and Sergei belongs to her. Yet he’s the one who keeps his distance.
Why?
“Can you drop me home? Ro just left.” She pouts, pressing herself a little too close to Sergei and something in my chest tightens.
I refuse to define it, because the moment I do, things would get complicated, and a man is the very last thing I need complicating my life.
The way his touch lingers in my mind should’ve been enough to send me running for the hills, not following him around campus like a hobby that I’m ninety percent sure is socially unacceptable.
I don’t do emotions. Fuck them.
Yet the sharp pang in my chest refuses to be ignored as Alina whines like a child.
“Please, please, please…” I catch the exact moment Sergei gives in.
“Sure. Hop in.”
He doesn’t move immediately. Instead, he scans the area one last time before rounding the car and slipping into the driver’s seat. The engine hums to life, and they pull away.
All I see is Alina talking animatedly while Sergei drives in silence until the car disappears from view.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that he deliberately avoided the side of the car park where I was hiding.
Maybe I’m imagining it, but I could’ve sworn he was making a point of not looking in my direction.
Much like I’m making a point of ignoring whatever’s lodged itself beneath my ribs after seeing Alina wrapped around him.
There are certain people at Kingsford you don’t get involved with. Sergei Zaytsev tops that list.
Not that I was planning on getting involved with him anyway.
It’s about time I put an end to this ridiculous stalking business.
THREE
Sergei
Three days.
Apparently, three days is my limit.
She hasn’t stalked me in three days, and I haven’t seen her since the car park. Face to face, anyway.
Virtually? I even watch her sleep.
I’ve only broken into her flat twice. Once to install the cameras and the second time to move a book she’d left in front of one of them. It was blocking the view.
I’ve been stalking her for six fucking months and she couldn’t manage two weeks. Does she have the attention span of a goldfish or am I genuinely that uninteresting?
I rarely find things funny, because they usually aren’t. There is nothing amusing about a child tripping over their shoelaces or a grown man walking straight into a glass door.
But there was something oddly entertaining about watching Elara attempt to hide behind benches and lampposts as if they could conceal a grown woman.
She was terrible at it, thinking she was being subtle and I let her.
She, who takes silence to another level—and coming from me, that says a lot—had willingly included me in her routine.
Elara Everly.
