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"God, this is shit," I hissed under my breath. The apartment felt too small, the walls inching closer like they knew something I didn’t. My skin prickled with the sensation of eyes boring into me. I glanced over my shoulder for what felt like the hundredth time, half-expecting to see a pair of glowing orbs in the shadows. Nothing. Just me and my paranoia, apparently.
I pressed my fingers to my temples. The desire coiled within me had fangs, biting at my insides with every imagined whisper of movement. I didn't even know who he was—my mystery stalker. Could be the barista who smiled a little too wide, the neighbor who lingered in the hallway, or some faceless fuck from the depths of the internet. The not knowing was a special kind of torture.
Maybe he's just misunderstood. I mused, my thoughts laced with enough sarcasm to poison a small village. Or maybe he's a serial killer with a fetish for artists. Great. Fucking. Choices.
The idea of telling someone about my personalized boogeyman tiptoed across my brain, but I shoved it into a dark corner. No way was I dragging anyone else into this shitshow—not until I knew what kind of crazy I was dealing with. If Mr. Creepy wanted to play, I needed to suss out the rules of his game first.
A knock at the door tore me from my troubled thoughts, and Aria waltzed in like she owned the place—which, given how often she crashed here, wasn't entirely off the mark.
"Thinking of adding 'Nervous Breakdown Survivor' to your artist bio?" Aria's voice cut through the fog in my head, laced with that signature humor that could make a joke out of a funeral.
"Ha-ha, laugh it up," I shot back, though the edge in my voice was more serrated than I intended. “Aria Winters, comedienne extraordinaire.”
I could feel Aria’s gaze on me, the weight of unspoken questions. Should I tell her? Let her in on the fact that I wasn't just playing tag with disaster—I was full-on bear hugging the bastard?
But before I could spill my guts, nature decided to throw its own twisted punchline. A sharp crack against the window punctuated the stormy silence, and both of us jumped, our hearts skipping a beat in unison.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Aria yelped, her hands flying to her chest like she was trying to keep her soul from leaping out.
"Fuck me sideways," I cursed, staring at the window where a branch, propelled by the furious wind, had taken up the role of harbinger of doom. "It's just the storm, Aria. No need to summon the Holy Trinity."
"Sure, because nothing says 'cozy evening' quite like getting bitch-slapped by Mother Nature." Aria rolled her eyes but laughed, the tension in her shoulders unwinding just a smidge.
Mother Nature's got nothing on my stalker. I thought grimly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips. If I didn't laugh, I'd probably start screaming, and I wasn't about to give anyone, let alone my voyeuristic shadow, the satisfaction of seeing me unravel.
"Something up, Celeste? You look like you've seen a ghost—or worse, a text from your ex." Aria's probing gaze made me squirm. She could always spot a lie, sense a secret. It was like a sixth sense or some annoying superpower.
"Ah, just the usual existential dread mixed with artistic frustration. Nothing a bottle of wine won't fix," I lied smoothly, my heart racing. If only she knew the kind of 'artistic inspiration' I was getting lately.
"Girl, you need more than wine. How about tequila shots? That'll kick start your mojo," she suggested.
"Sure, line 'em up," I joked back, even though alcohol was the last thing I needed when my judgment was already clouded by lust and fear.
"Alright, I'm gonna make a run to the kitchen. Want anything special?" Aria asked, standing up and leaving the room before I had a chance to answer.
The clink of glasses from the kitchen was a mundane soundtrack to the chaos of my thoughts. I sat there, absently drumming my fingers on the coffee table, trying to ignore the fact that my phone felt like a ticking time bomb in my pocket.
"Hey, Celeste, did you hear about those murders?" Aria's voice sliced through the hum of my anxiety, and I froze. Her question landed like a punch to the gut, unexpected and brutal.
"Murders?" My voice came out far too casual, a stark contrast to the sudden alarm bells ringing in my head.
"Yup, it's been all over the news," she said, walking back into the room with two drinks in hand. "They're saying it's targeted at the LGBTQ community. Pretty fucked up, huh?"
"Shit." The word slipped out before I could stop it. An icy shiver ran down my spine as I thought of the dark possibility that my stalker might not be just a shadow lurking in my fantasies but a real-life monster with blood on his hands.
"Right? As if we didn't have enough to deal with." Aria plopped down beside me, and I could tell by her furrowed brow that she was genuinely worried. "I mean, it's scary to think that someone out there hates us enough to..."
"Kill?" I finished for her, feeling bile rise in my throat. The reality of the situation was creeping in, wrapping around my neck like cold fingers. Was I flirting with danger, or had I invited a killer into my bed?
"Exactly." Aria took a nervous sip of her drink, eyes scanning my face. "You okay, Celeste? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Ah, no ghosts here. Just contemplating the fragility of life and our impending doom," I joked, but my laughter sounded hollow even to my own ears.
"Always the drama queen." She nudged me with her elbow, trying to lighten the mood. But the heaviness remained, pressing down on me with the weight of my own secrets.
I sank back into the couch, my mind racing. I had walked on the knife-edge of desire and danger, letting my darkest fantasies lead me into a game that suddenly felt far too real. Fear and arousal tangled within me, a knotted mess I couldn't unravel.
"Remember when our biggest problem was sneaking vodka from your mom's cabinet and not getting caught?" I joked, desperate to deflect from the dread clawing at my insides.
