THE HUNTER .

After Shadin decided to be a complete dick-even though I really fucking needed him there-the rest of the day dragged its lazy ass forward like it owed me something.

Classes ended, my brain barely survived, and now I'm on the goddamn bus heading home, flopped against the window like an emotionally repressed Victorian ghost.

This route takes a full fucking hour. A whole hour of my life, stolen every single day so I can sit here and marinate in existential dread while the bus groans along roads that somehow get shittier every week.

Everyone else? Gone. They all live in another city, different routes, different buses, different vibes. I'm the lone dumbass left on this mobile prison, watching buildings blur past and regretting every choice that led me here.

The bus jerks to a stop, and my entire spine gets yeeted against the seat in front of me. 

Fantastic. 

As if I haven't already suffered enough today.

I drag myself up like some wounded warrior returning from battle, step down into the dust, and before I can even exhale-the fucking bus roars away, exhaust coughing in my face like a personal insult.

I stand there for a moment.

Alone.

Still.

Contemplating murder.

I sigh and start walking. Same goddamn road. Same depressing sky. Same cracked pavement I trip over at least twice a week.

The air's unusually still. It should feel peaceful, but no-my brain won't shut up. Every step sounds louder than it should, echoing with the kind of irritation only a third-year literature student can carry.

And then I see it.

A cat.

Just sitting there. On the wall. Tail swishing. Looking at me like I owe it rent.

I slow down, narrowing my eyes. The cat does not blink. It's giving me that judgmental face only cats can master. Like it knows everything. My GPA. My insomnia. My weak-ass self-control when it comes to online shopping.

"Mind your own business, asshole," I mutter.

The cat flicks its tail, clearly offended, and turns its face away like I've already disappointed it just by existing.

Cool. Fucking phenomenal.

I shove my hands in my pockets and keep walking, channeling my inner brooding anti-hero. Maybe I'll start narrating my life in third person. Maybe I'll join a cult. Anything to make this walk less fucking miserable.

But then I remember-

The Demon.

My soul drops three floors into hell.

And right on cue, there he is.

Sitting on the steps of his house like a tiny mafia boss. Feet swinging. Eyes glowing with the kind of mischief that would make Satan proud.

The Kid.

I don't know his name. I don't want to know his name. Knowing would make it real. Like naming the monster under your bed.

This spawn of hell doesn't talk. He doesn't yell. He doesn't tantrum. He's past that stage. He's on some elevated level of villainy.

He throws shit.

Leaves. Paper. Tiny rocks. A goddamn piece of chalk once. CHALK. WHO GAVE HIM STATIONERY??

I pretend I don't see him.

Do not engage. Do not look. Do not breathe.

My pace is steady. My eyes forward. My heart? Dying.

And then-

Something grazes my leg.

A crumpled piece of paper.

This little bitch.

I clench my jaw. I say nothing. I don't flinch. He won't win. I refuse to let a three-foot menace ruin my day more than it already is.

But I can feel it.

That smug, unspoken satisfaction radiating off him like black magic. The bastard is smiling. Not on his face. No. That'd be too obvious. He's smiling in his aura.

I walk faster.

The cat? Forgotten. The bus? Fuck that betrayal machine. The education system? Burn it all.

Just me, my aching feet, and a long-ass road.

Tomorrow? I'll do it all again.

Kill me.

The gate creaks open with that dramatic squeal it always does, like the house wants to announce my return just to make my existence slightly more annoying.

I don't bother to look around-same porch, same shoes tossed by the door, same goddamn plant pot that's been cracked since last year and no one gives a shit to fix it. I unlock the door and push it open with my foot, stepping into the familiar chaos of my house.

The sound of PubG gunfire is blasting from the living room.

"Ahil!" My mom's voice slices through the air like a knife dipped in hot oil. "How many times do I have to tell you to turn that shit down! It's not a fucking warzone!"

I don't say anything. I don't greet. I just drag myself across the hallway like a corpse with unfinished business and make my way up the stairs. Second floor. Left turn. Door. Home.

I throw my bag to the floor without even aiming. My bed greets me with the only affection I've gotten today. I fall face-first onto it and let out a long, muffled growl into the pillow. A real one. The kind that rips out of your chest like a beast. Disappointment flavored with exhaustion.

I flip onto my back. Stare at the ceiling like it personally betrayed me.

Downstairs, the kitchen smells like someone's burning garlic again. And then:

"AHIL, I SWEAR TO GOD-YOU DIE IN THAT GAME ONE MORE TIME AND I'M UNPLUGGING THE ROUTER!"

The ten-year-old menace yells back, "IT'S LAGGING!"

"YOU'RE LAGGING, YOU LITTLE-"

I tune it out. Just for a second. Just let the ceiling be quiet.

Then I peel myself off the bed, grab my towel, and drag my ass to the bathroom. Steam. Hot water. Silence. It helps. Not much, but enough to pull the knife out of my brain.

Twenty minutes later, I'm in clean clothes, wet hair dripping down my back, and heading to the kitchen because I deserve one thing after surviving this hellhole of a day: coffee.

I make it black. No sugar. No softness. Just caffeine and bitterness in a mug, like my soul.

Mug in hand, I go back upstairs. My room still smells like my shampoo. I place the mug carefully on my desk, sit down cross-legged on the bed, and reach over for my book.

Except-

It's not fucking there.

I blink. Check the floor. The shelf. The drawer. The pile of mess near the window that may or may not be evolving into a new species. Nothing.

It's not under my pillow. Not in the blanket. Not on the chair.

What the actual-

I storm downstairs, coffee forgotten, mood officially ruined. My mom's slicing something in the kitchen.

"Mom, did you see my book?"

She doesn't even look up. Just raises an eyebrow. The Stare. The silent, soul-flaying judgment stare that says, "I don't have time for your dramatic bullshit."

I shut up immediately. Step back like I just poked a sleeping lion.

Right. Not today.

I go to the demon. The tiny troll. The ten-year-old. He's sprawled on the sofa, iPad in one hand, headphones half on, and a concentration face like he's about to hack the goddamn Pentagon.

"Ahil," I say, calmly.

He doesn't hear.

I walk up, snatch the headphones off. "Did you see my book?"

He blinks. "What book?"

I squint. "The one I was reading. Red cover. Guy on the front. Kinda smutty but classy?"

He looks disgusted. "Ew, no. I didn't touch your cringe love shit."

"Language," I snap.

"You literally say 'fuck' every three minutes."

I exhale. "That's because I'm a grown-up disappointment. Now answer the question."

"I didn't take your book," he says, turning back to his game. "Maybe the cat stole it."

I narrow my eyes. "HE WON'T"

"Exactly."

I consider murder. Just for a second.

But instead, I walk away. Back to my room. Coffee cold. Book missing. Sanity dangling by a thread.

And somewhere, probably under the universe's laughter, I sit cross-legged on my bed, arms crossed, and mutter to no one,

"Great. Lost my book. Lost my dignity. Might as well lose my fucking mind next."

I'm still sitting there like a tragic mythological mess, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, plotting the downfall of every single thing that breathes-

When I feel it.

The softest fucking weight in the universe.

I glance down.

Boo Boo.

The little prince himself. All smug fur and silent judgment. Pure white Persian, like a cloud that's tired of everyone's shit. He hops up on the bed without asking permission-because of course he does-and curls up right on my stomach like it's his throne.

"Seriously?" I groan, but I don't move.

He closes his eyes. Starts purring like he pays rent.

Little bastard.

"You're the reason I can't have nice things," I tell him, stroking behind his ears, and of course he leans into it like he's been starved for affection. Drama queen. "Don't even pretend like you care I had the worst day of my life."

He yawns. Which, frankly, is the rudest possible response.

Footsteps thunder up the stairs.

Ahil appears at my door, peeks in, sees the scene-and loses it.

"Oh my God," he snorts, pointing. "He really just... planted himself there."

"He thinks I'm a mattress."

"Maybe you are," Ahil grins, leaning on the frame. "A dumb, whiny, bookless mattress."

"Fuck off."

"Is he dead?" Ahil squints at Boo Boo.

"No, just bored of your existence."

Boo Boo lets out the tiniest huff of air, like he agrees.

Ahil laughs again, shrugs, then vanishes back down the hall, probably to tell the Wi-Fi router how much he loves it.

I shift a little, careful not to disturb Boo Boo's royal nap. He responds by digging his tiny murder paws slightly deeper into my stomach. I hiss.

"Okay, chill. Damn. It's your world, I'm just the road you walk on."

His eyes stay closed.

"You know," I murmur, scratching his chin gently, "someone stole my book today. The good one. The one where the guy has trauma and a jawline so sharp it could legally be used as a weapon. I was halfway through the chapter where they finally admit they want to ruin each other and now it's just... gone."

Boo Boo purrs louder.

"I bet it was Mom. She always acts like she's too holy for romance but the last time I left a book open, she bookmarked it. With a spoon."

The cat sneezes.

I sigh, long and dramatic, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers.

"I don't ask for much. Just caffeine, emotional destruction through fictional men, and for the demon child in this house to not lose the internet mid-game. Is that too much?"

The fan hums. Boo Boo blinks once, slowly, as if to say yes. Yes, it fucking is.

I flick his ear lightly.

"Traitor."

He licks his paw. Like a rich bastard. Like the universe doesn't apply to him.

I let my hand fall beside me, fingers brushing the edge of the mattress, and close my eyes for a second. Boo Boo's warmth is oddly grounding, like a weighted blanket made of entitlement.

I don't fall asleep. Not really. But I go quiet.

And that's when something shifts in the air.

Not loud. Not sudden. But real.

A feeling. A...

Wrongness.

I open one eye. Boo Boo lifts his head too, ears twitching.

My door is still half open.

The hallway is dark.

But I swear-

Something just moved.

I sit up.

Real slow. Like I'm not sure if I imagined that shadow flicker or if the ceiling's finally collapsing from carrying all my emotional damage.

Boo Boo's ears twitch.

I glance at the door again. That hallway is dark as sin. Cold air slithers in through the small crack, licking at my skin like a warning.

Then-

BUZZZZZ.

I jump like a goddamn horror movie extra. Boo Boo bolts off me, offended, dives under the bed like a coward.

I snatch my phone.

Screen lights up.

Shadin.

Of fucking course.

Satan never sleeps.

I answer it. No greeting. No hesitation.

"What the fuck do you want this time?" I snap. My voice is raw, my pulse still somewhere between stab mode and cardiac arrest.

A lazy chuckle comes through the line. Deep. Velvet-slick. Too confident for someone who's one text away from a restraining order.

"Maybe you."

I blink. "Eww. Go say that to your blonde bimbo. Or did she finally grow a brain and block you?"

"She tried," he hums. "Didn't work. You, though... you never block me."

"That's 'cause you keep calling from different numbers like a psycho."

"Genius, not psycho."

I roll my eyes so hard my skull hurts. "What do you even want, Shadin? You're wasting my battery and my will to live."

"Just wanted to hear your voice."

Ugh. Vomit. Abort mission.

"You're unbelievable."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"You're still talking to me, though."

I get off the bed, pacing, trying to shove the nervous energy down my spine. "Yeah, 'cause you called me like a desperate little-"

Creak.

My words cut off.

That sound again. From the hallway.

Subtle.

But there.

My eyes snap to the door. It's open wider now.

I didn't touch it.

No one touched it.

"...What was that?" I mutter, barely above a whisper.

"Hmm?" Shadin's voice is smooth, unconcerned.

"I heard something."

"I'm hearing things too," he says, "like the way your voice dips when you're curious. And your breathing-fast. Almost like you're scared."

I freeze. "How the fuck would you know what my breathing sounds like right now?"

He pauses.

Then, with perfect fucking wicked timing-

"Because I'm watching you."

My stomach lurches.

"...You're not funny."

"I'm not joking."

I look back toward the door.

It's open enough now that I can see the hallway light flicker.

No.

Nope.

"Are you in my house?" I ask slowly, gripping my phone tighter.

Shadin's voice drops, honey-laced and low.

"I'm under your bed."

My whole spine stiffens.

"You fucking-" I cut off, heartbeat spiking.

Then I crouch down.

Because I'm apparently the dumb bitch in the movie who checks.

I lift the bedspread. Boo Boo stares at me from the shadows underneath, wide-eyed and betrayed.

"Shadin." My voice is steel now. "There's nothing under my bed except a traumatized cat and a shoe I lost last year."

Another chuckle through the phone. "Maybe I'm inside the shoe."

I scream. "I'm blocking you, I swear to God-"

"You won't."

"Try me, stalker."

"Stalker?" he echoes, faux-offended. "Please. You love this. The attention. The flirting. The way I say your name like it's-"

"Don't you fucking say my name," I growl.

He falls quiet for a second. But I can feel him smirking. Through the goddamn phone.

"I'll see you soon," he says, voice darker now. Not playful. Not joking.

"Shadin-"

Click.

Call ends.

I stare at the screen.

Then at the hallway.

Then back at Boo Boo.

He blinks.

I whisper, "If I die, avenge me."

He sneezes.

Useless fluff ball.

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

I yank the blanket up over my head like I'm a kid hiding from boogeymen, dragging Boo Boo with me. He lets out an offended mrrrrow but curls into my side anyway, like he knows we're about to die and wants to go together.

I'm not checking shit again. I already did the dumb horror-movie thing. I already played the role of "curious bitch #1" who goes crawling around just to get dragged under the bed. That ain't me. 

Nope.

I'm not opening the door. I'm not going into the hallway. I'm not investigating. I'm not-

I grab my phone.

Thumb flying.

Me:

"Don't mess with me, you fucker."

I hit send so hard I nearly crack the screen.

Three dots.

Then his name glows again.

Shadin:

"I'm joking dumb".

Oh yeah?

I smirk bitterly.

Of course he is.

Always is.

Me:

"I know you are. But it's kinda scary, bitch."

The dots blink again.

Pause.

Start again.

Stop.

Then-

Shadin:

"Good. Scary sticks."

What the fuck?

Me:

"You trying to stick in my memory or in my nightmares?"

Shadin:

"Both. But I'd rather be under your skin."

I blink.

Hard.

The fuck does that even mean?

Before I can respond, another text comes.

Shadin:

"Right now you're curled up in bed, blanket over your head like a coward, cat tucked under your arm. Heart's still racing. Eyes moving. Thinking if I'm still watching. And you still replied to me."

My stomach turns.

Is he guessing?

He has to be guessing.

There's no fucking way-

Right?

Me:

"If I see your face anywhere near my window, I swear I'll throw Boo Boo at you like a grenade."

Shadin:

"Noted. Tell Boo Boo I said goodnight."

I snort despite myself.

Fucking lunatic.

I toss the phone on the nightstand like it's cursed, then roll to my side, pulling Boo Boo closer. He's warm and breathing slow, already halfway to his cat dreams where I'm sure I'm the villain.

My hand curls around his soft fur.

I stare at the darkness leaking through the window crack.

Scary sticks, huh?

Under my skin?

Yeah.

He's stuck all right.

Like a splinter under the nail.

I sigh into my pillow and whisper out loud like a prayer, half-tired, half-done with this entire existence.

"Dear God, if I don't wake up tomorrow, let the last thing I did be calling Shadin a bitch."

Boo Boo purrs.

Traitor.

Sleep drags me under like a riptide.

Somewhere between irritation and intrigue.

Between fear and something else that tastes like danger and sounds like a smirk.

And I dream.

Not of monsters.

But of that voice.

Saying my name like it's already his.

_______________________________________

Clara Ma'am's voice is a gentle drone in the background, like rain hitting a roof-constant, soft, impossible to ignore and impossible to care about.

Something about metaphor.

Or symbolism.

Or emotional landscapes in tragic narratives.

Whatever.

My emotional landscape is burnt.

Charred from last night and still smoldering.

I sit in the third row, elbow on the desk, chin in my hand, not even pretending to take notes. My pen is stuck in the coil of my notebook, completely abandoned. My eyes drift toward the windows and stay there. The light outside looks blinding and fake. My brain's not here. It's still under the blanket, trapped in the memory of that text, that voice, that feeling.

Did it happen?

Did he actually say those things?

Did I imagine it?

Hell if I know.

Hell if I even want to know.

Clara's voice slices back into my skull.

"...which is why the sea, in this context, is not just water-it's grief. Grief has no shore, no safety. It just-"

Ring.

Please.

Fucking. Ring.

I glance at the wall clock. It's not even close to the end of class. I fight the urge to physically groan. A full-on despair growl builds in my throat, barely choked back.

Fine. Desperate times.

I raise my hand, blinking innocently like a girl who didn't just threaten someone over text last night.

"Ma'am, can I go to the restroom?"

My voice comes out sweet, too sweet. It tastes like poison in my mouth.

Clara pauses, eyes narrowing like she knows. "We just started fifteen minutes ago."

I shrug like I'm embarrassed. I'm not. I just want to get the hell out.

Every fucking classmate turns toward me like I just confessed to murder.

Shaiza mouths from the front row, "Liar."

I flash her the middle finger behind my notebook. She grins.

Clara sighs long enough to kill a bird. "Fine. But don't disappear. I will mark you absent if you don't come back."

"I won't," I lie smoothly, already halfway up before she finishes. I grab my phone, slide it into my hoodie pocket, and get out like I'm breaking out of prison.

Except I'm not going to the restroom.

I make a turn and cross the courtyard, walking fast toward the Business major building.

Because if I don't clear what happened last night, I'll lose my goddamn mind.

I climb the stairs, slip down the hallway, and peek into the classroom where Shadin is supposed to be.

Empty seat.

He's not there.

I frown. One arm braced on the doorframe, I lean in a little, squinting past the suits and polished shoes, until-

A breath brushes the back of my neck.

Warm. Real.

Close enough to feel.

My skin jerks. My heart does a violent flip.

I spin fast. Too fast.

Almost kiss his cheek.

Almost crash into him mouth first.

But he leans back just in time, like he knew.

Like he wanted that almost.

"Holy shit," I hiss, stepping back with my palm to my chest. "You scared me, fucker."

His smirk is slow, deliberate, dangerous. "Good."

"Don't 'good' me, asshole. Why aren't you in class?"

His brows rise in amusement. "Why aren't you?"

"I-"

I pause, caught.

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not. You came to see me?"

The way he says it, like it's some dirty secret, makes my cheeks betray me with heat.

I grab his wrist. "Come with me."

No questions. No games. Just movement.

He follows.

We walk two hallways over to the far side of the building, behind the library annex. No one comes here. It smells like books and dust and old paint. The windows are high, the silence louder than any lecture.

I stop. Turn.

"You fucked with me last night."

It spits out of me like venom. My grip tightens around his wrist.

He blinks. "What?"

"Don't act like you don't know."

"I don't," he says, genuinely confused. "The fuck are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the call, you bitch. The texts. You sounding like some serial killer under my bed." My voice breaks slightly at the end. Not fear-frustration. Embarrassment.

Shadin's face shifts. Annoyance bleeds into confusion. "Are you high?"

"I-what?" My jaw tightens.

He pulls out his phone. "You wanna talk about calls?"

He opens the call log. Scrolls. Hands it to me.

No call to me last night.

No texts either.

I stare at the screen like it's lying.

Like it's a mirror and I'm not in it.

"No," I murmur. "No, no. That's not-this isn't right."

"You sure you didn't dream it?" His voice is low. Still cocky. But a little careful now.

"I don't dream texts, Shadin. Or voices whispering like psychos."

But even I hear the uncertainty in my own voice.

Did I?

No.

It felt too real.

Didn't it?

"You okay?" he asks softly, stepping forward. "You look like you just walked out of a fever dream."

I laugh once, bitter. "I feel like I'm losing it."

His hand hovers at my shoulder but doesn't touch. "You didn't text me. I didn't call you. That I'm sure of."

I rub my face, my skin suddenly too tight for my bones.

This isn't happening. This isn't some horror movie glitch. I'm not that girl.

"I even told God if I die in my sleep, let the last thing I do be calling you a bitch."

Shadin huffs out a small laugh. "Touched. Really."

I shake my head, trying to ground myself, but everything feels slippery. Like I'm trying to hold on to smoke.

He leans in slightly. "So...if I had called you, what would you have done?"

"You mean before or after kicking you in the face?"

"Damn." His grin tilts. "That's your version of romance?"

"Romance?" I scoff. "I'd rather romance a toaster."

"But still... you came to see me."

There it is again. That fucking tone. Like he knows something I don't.

I look up at him. Really look.

And for a second...

That voice from last night-it could be his.

It could.

But then-

What if it wasn't?

What if it never happened at all?

"That was your voice," I snap, staring dead into his smug-ass face. "Your fucking voice. Your number. And you texted me like a creep in some B-grade horror movie. What the fuck were you on-were you drunk?"

His brow arches. A slow, surprised kind of smile slides over his mouth like it's been waiting there.

"I don't drink."

His tone is dry. Matter-of-fact. Unbothered.

Of course he doesn't.

Perfect golden boy. Always clean, always smug, always five fucking steps ahead.

I growl. Not metaphorically-I actually growl, low and guttural, like an animal seconds away from biting something. Probably him.

He grins wider, teeth glinting. "Damn, was that... a growl? You always this feral before noon?"

"Shut up," I hiss, pointing a finger at his chest but not quite touching him. "Don't pull this innocent act. You fucking called me, Shadin. You texted me. I'm not hallucinating."

He cocks his head, mock-thoughtful. "Okay then." His voice dips, playful and sinister. "Show me."

"What?"

"Show me the texts." He spreads his hands, palms up, like he's giving me a stage. "C'mon, babe. Prove it."

The way he says babe makes my brain sizzle.

I don't have the time-or mental stability-to process that right now.

"Fine," I spit, snatching my phone from my hoodie pocket. "Gladly. I will prove it. And you're going to look so fucking dumb."

He leans against the wall like he's settling in for a movie.

I swipe up. Click open my messages. Scroll to his chat.

The thread opens.

And-

Nothing.

No texts from last night.

Not a single fucking word.

Just the old messages. Stupid jokes, a few memes from a week ago, some bullshit conversation about who looks more like a lizard (it was him, obviously), and then a blank space where last night's horror should be.

No "boo."

No creepy call log.

No blood-chilling "you left your window open."

No goddamn anything.

Gone.

Like it never happened.

My stomach plummets.

My hands go still.

The breath in my chest suddenly weighs too much.

I stare at the screen like I can will the texts to appear with pure rage. I scroll up. Down. Hit refresh. Nothing.

Behind me, his voice drips amusement. "You done?"

I slowly look up at him.

His smirk is pure menace. Soft. Mocking. Fucking hot.

"You look like you just saw a ghost," he murmurs.

"I-" My voice cracks. "I swear it was here. I-fuck. I swear to God, it was here. I'm not making it up."

His brow lifts. "Sure you're not high?"

"Shut the fuck up."

He chuckles low. The sound crawls down my spine and makes my fingers twitch.

"Don't get mad at me just because your dreams are starring me now," he says, stepping just slightly into my space, that lazy, stupid confidence stretching across his whole frame like it owns the air around me. "Should I be flattered or worried?"

I blink. Hard. My mouth goes dry.

"That wasn't a dream," I growl. "It was too fucking real."

His eyes flick to my lips when I speak. Bastard.

Slow. Unapologetic. That look he gives when he's about to say something dangerous.

"Real enough to want to kiss me when you spun around this morning," he murmurs.

I snap back. "Don't flatter yourself, I was gonna punch you."

"You sure?" He leans in, voice low, velvet and thorn. "Because it looked a lot like your mouth almost knew where to land."

I freeze.

He knows what he's doing.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

And I'm so fucked in the head right now, I can't tell if I want to knee him or kill him.

"You're such a piece of shit."

"Hot piece of shit," he corrects smoothly, grin flashing. "Who apparently haunts your dreams now. Honestly, I'm kinda honored."

"I'm going to shove this phone down your throat."

"And yet, you came looking for me first thing in the morning. Not your priest. Not your therapist. Me."

His eyes gleam. "Why is that, sweetheart?"

Because you were the voice in the dark.

Because your number was there.

Because I felt you, heard you, breathed you into my bloodstream like smoke and now I can't get it out.

I don't say any of that.

Instead, I snap, "Because you're the only one dumb enough to fuck with me that late."

He tilts his head, biting back another smile.

"Or maybe," he murmurs, "I'm the only one you wanted it to be."

I don't answer.

Because my brain is melting.

And I'm terrified that if I speak again, it won't be with anger-it'll be with a tremble I can't afford.

He watches me for a beat too long.

Then, voice softer, more curious than cocky:

"You okay?"

No.

No, I'm not.

But I've never said those words out loud, and I'm not starting now.

I force a shrug. "Fine."

A pause. Then he says it again, this time like he means it.

"Arshila.., Are you okay?"

The way he says my name makes something claw up in my chest. He never calls me that unless he's trying to cut through the sarcasm.

I look at him. Really look.

And I hate that, for a split second, I wish it had been a dream.

Because if it wasn't...

Then someone else has my number.

Knows where I live.

Knows my voice.

And wants me scared.

And I am.