Chapter Three
Zane
I let myself into Georgia’s apartment quietly, carefully closing the door behind me.
I’m getting impatient with myself.
I’ve been close to her so many times now, close enough to brush past her in hallways, close enough to hear the cadence of her breathing when she pauses outside her building…
so close that the restraint is starting to feel like a physical ache.
Every instinct I have urges me forward, tells me to take the next step, to reach out and touch her already.
And yet…I don’t.
Something still holds me back.
Georgia has been receptive. More than receptive.
She reads every letter. She wears what I ask.
She leaves notes for me on her door like breadcrumbs meant only for me.
After the first time she asked to meet, she stopped asking, but not because she lost interest. I can see it in the way she lingers now.
The way she looks around before unlocking her car.
The way her smile softens when she thinks she’s alone.
She’s waiting, anticipating just as much as I am.
But I’m not ready to see what happens when she really looks at me.
I can hide most of the damage with clothes.
My face was spared the worst of it thanks to the helmet I had on, though the scars near my eye and along my cheek are still there; thin, pale reminders of the moment the visor shattered.
The rest of the scars are easier to conceal.
I don’t dwell on them anymore. They’re part of me now, like the limp I manage without thinking.
What I can’t predict is her reaction.
That uncertainty keeps me in the shadows longer than I planned.
I move through her apartment slowly, deliberately, taking in the familiar details. The way she lines her shoes up by the door. The throw blanket folded just so on the couch. The faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the wall clock.
I know this space almost as well as she does. Though she doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know that I’ve already been inside her house.
The first time I’d picked her lock, but it didn’t take long for me to find her spare key in a kitchen drawer.
I made a copy and the next few visits were easy.
Placing the cameras in her house was also easy, and as much as I know how fucked up that is, the need to see her overrides whatever guilt I’m supposed to feel.
I was strategic with the camera positioning. I chose spots that give a clear view without being invasive, and while I gave in to the urge to put one in her bedroom, I did disable the video but left the audio on.
I’m a bastard, but not so much to scare the woman I care about. No, when I see her that way for the first it will be at her invitation.
I just need to make sure she’s safe. All the time.
The cameras are how I learned about the sink.
I heard the drip first, faint but persistent, late one night while she stood at the counter rubbing her temples, muttering under her breath about her landlord. I heard her leave a voicemail. Then another. I heard the frustration in her voice when no one called her back.
So now I’m here. To fix the sink.
I set my jacket aside and head straight for the kitchen, kneeling beneath the sink. The problem is simple…a loose connection that should’ve been tightened months ago. I brought the proper tools with me and am able to fix it quickly, testing it twice to make sure the drip is gone.
I’m about to stand when I notice the cabinet doors are slightly crooked. I adjust those too. Then I replace the burned-out bulb above the sink and take out the trash near the kitchen island.
Next, I open the fridge, and I can’t help the grim frown that knots my forehead.
It’s nearly empty.
Same story with the cupboards. There’s barely anything inside—at least nothing that looks like a real meal. I realize I’ve never seen her come back from the grocery store. Not once. I know she’s been working long hours but still…
She needs to take better care of herself.
I don’t like that she doesn’t.
I straighten slowly, scanning the apartment one more time as I make a quiet resolution
I want to be the one who takes care of her.
After, I leave her apartment, making sure everything is exactly where it should be.
By the time Georgia gets home that evening, I’m back in my studio at Harbor House, the glow of my laptop the only illumination in the room. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket draped over the chair, my leg stretched out in front of me to ease the dull ache that never quite goes away.
This is the part I tell myself is practical. Protective. Necessary.
The feeds come up one by one.
Her front door opens and she walks in.
I lean back against the headboard—watching.