Chapter Six
Zane
The first night with Georgia, and the two that follow, are the best nights of my life.
I finally got to touch her. To hold her while she slept. To wake up with her warm, soft body snuggled trustingly in my arms.
But it’s never simple.
It’s bittersweet in a way I didn’t expect, because just as she can’t see me, I can’t see her either.
Not really. I know her face. I know her body.
I’ve watched her move through her days, memorized the way she carries herself, the way she tilts her head when she’s thinking.
But at night, in the dark, it’s different.
She becomes sensation instead of image: heat, scent, sound, instinct.
I feel a twinge of guilt I can’t quite shake, because I know this is harder on her than it is on me.
She’s probably dying with curiosity to know the man she’s been sleeping with.
I haven’t even told her my last name. That was intentional.
If she had it, she’d look me up. She’d find things I don’t want her to see—pictures, articles, a man who doesn’t exist anymore.
I could maybe handle her seeing me as I am now.
I’m not sure I could survive watching her mourn what I used to be.
She can’t compare me to a ghost if she never meets him.
That logic has kept me steady, but lately, it feels like a load of crap. Maybe because what we share defies logic.
We have fallen into a routine without ever discussing it. I come to her at night, after she’s turned off every light and pulled the heavy curtains closed. The apartment feels sealed off from the world then, like it exists just for us. I leave before sunrise, slipping out before she ever wakes up.
During the day, I keep my distance. I follow her to work, handle my own business, then make sure she gets home safely.
Most nights, dinner is waiting for her when she walks in, nothing dramatic, just something nice and warm.
She talks to me through the cameras while she eats, while she moves around her apartment, while she unwinds.
I listen.
I can tell there’s something she wants to ask me. It sits just beneath the surface, in the pauses she leaves, in the way her voice changes when she almost says it and stops.
She’s holding back.
I don’t need her to say it out loud…
She wants to see me.
The thought tightens in my chest every time it crosses my mind.
I feel like I’m standing at the edge of something I can’t undo once I step into it.
She seems to genuinely care about me, not just what we do at night, but me.
She likes talking to me. Likes my presence.
Likes that I’m there. She can feel my scars when she touches me.
She traces them with her fingers, kisses them without hesitation, like they’re just another part of me instead of something broken.
I want to believe that will translate when the lights are on.
That she won’t look at me and see the damage first.
But…I’m not ready yet.
I’m closer than I was yesterday.
Closer than I ever planned to be.
Today, after I follow her through her morning commute and watch her disappear into her building, I don’t linger like I usually do. Once I know she’s inside and safe, I turn away and head in the opposite direction.
She never placed the grocery order.
I noticed. Of course I did. Her fridge was still mostly empty when I checked earlier, the same few staples shoved toward the back like an afterthought. She eats when she remembers. Or when I remind her.
That won’t cut it.
I drive down to the grocery store, and it’s busy and loud in a way that grates on me, but I move through it with purpose.
I know what she likes. I’ve looked through her pantry, her trash to see what things she leaves empty and which boxes she never opens.
I grab what she actually eats, not what she thinks she should.
Real food. Comfort food. Things she won’t forget about until they go bad.
A child screams an aisle over, and I look in the direction; that’s when I notice the decorations.
Red everywhere. Hearts. Balloons. Baskets wrapped in cellophane. Words like love and forever printed too large, too loud. It takes me a second to connect the dots.
Valentine’s Day is a week away.
I’ve never paid attention to it before, never had a reason to. It always felt like a performance for other people—expensive dinners, forced sentiment, expectations I never wanted to meet.
Until now.
The idea settles in my chest slowly, deliberately. Nothing flashy. Something private…just for her. I don’t know exactly what it looks like yet, but I know how it should feel. Safe. Intentional. I need to show her that I chose her—and will keep choosing her.
I add a few things from the Valentine’s display section to the cart. When I get back to her apartment, I let myself in easily and put the groceries away carefully. I make sure to stack most things where she’ll actually see them.
I take my time with the other items, tuck them into the cupboard above the fridge, the one she never opens because she can’t reach it without a chair. I know that because I watched her try once, huff in annoyance, then give up. She won’t find them by accident. She won’t even think to look.
Good.
With that handled, I lock the apartment and head to the gym.
It’s a part of my routine. It has been for a while.
The gym is one of the few places where my body feels like it belongs to me again, where I can push against limits instead of feeling trapped by them.
I work through my sets methodically, ignoring the occasional glance, the curiosity I’ve learned to live with, the irritating pull of my scars as I stretch.
Afterward, I hit the showers and head to the locker room to change, assuming I’m alone. The space is quiet, familiar.
Then I hear voices. I look up to see a few guys come in as I’m pulling my shirt over my head. I feel it before I hear it…the shift, the pause. One of them reacts before he thinks better of it.
“Jesus, man,” he says, staring. “What happened to you?”
I freeze for half a second, then straighten. My jaw tightens. I’m tired. I don’t owe anyone an explanation, but experience has taught me that silence only makes it worse.
“My F-22 imploded mid-flight,” I say flatly.
“Had to eject over a forested mountain in hostile territory. The parachute malfunctioned.” The words come out sharp, clipped.
“Took over a year and more than a few surgeries to walk right again,” I add, tugging my shirt down.
“But hey. Makes for a hell of a story, right?”
The sarcasm lands harder than I intend. The room goes quiet.
The men shift uncomfortably. One of them clears his throat. “Sorry, man. We didn’t—”
“Didn’t mean to pry,” another adds. “Thank you for your service.”
They leave quickly after that, but the air still feels heavy even after they’re gone. I stand there for a moment longer than necessary, breathing through the familiar mix of irritation and embarrassment.
I leave the gym with my shoulders tight and my teeth clenched, the air outside biting colder than it should.
I tell myself it shouldn’t matter. I’ve had worse stares.
Louder questions. Men who didn’t bother to soften their curiosity with politeness or gratitude.
Still, something about it sticks this time, scraping against the inside of my chest long after I’ve put distance between myself and the locker room.
It’s not about the scars themselves… It’s the reminder of what they look like to other people.
I get back in my car and head straight for Georgia’s place, like my body already knows where it needs to be before my mind catches up.
The moment I unlock her door and step inside, the tension eases a fraction. Her apartment has that quiet, held feeling, like it’s waiting for her to come back and fill it up again. I breathe in without thinking, letting the familiar scent ground me. Clean cotton. Something faintly citrus. Her.
I head to the kitchen and take down the groceries that I’d put away earlier, setting them on the counter. I didn’t have an idea of what I wanted to cook when I was shopping, but I’ve decided now to make spaghetti. I’ve made it once before, and I could tell she loved it when she went for seconds.
At first, I’m distracted. My knife hits the cutting board a little too hard.
I nearly scorch the garlic because my thoughts drift back to the incident at the gym…
to the way that guy’s eyes widened, the half-second of shock before curiosity took over.
The moment keeps replaying in my head like it’s still happening.
Pausing, I close my eyes, forcing myself back to the present.
I imagine Georgia coming home instead; the way she kicks her shoes off without looking, the soft sigh she lets out when she drops her bag. The way she wanders into the kitchen like she’s not expecting anything and then freezes when she sees the food waiting for her.
That thought steadies me.
I slow down. Stir more carefully. Taste, adjust, breathe.
By the time I’m done, the food smells good enough that I am even tempted to sit and eat it.
I plate it, cover it, and leave it on the counter where she’ll see it right away.
I add a note—not one of my usual letters, just a small reassurance in my own shorthand.
I lean back against the counter afterward, rubbing a hand over my face.
This is the dangerous part.
Not the cameras. Not the stalking. Not even the nights in the dark. It’s this quiet wanting… The urge to stay. To be here when she gets home. To hear her voice without wires and speakers between us. To see her smile instead of imagining it.
With that want comes the fear.
The dark protects. It protects her from seeing the way people look at me when they realize what happened. Protects me from her comparing the man I am now to the one I used to be…the one she never knew but might still mourn for what could have been.
She’s touched my scars. Kissed them. But that was blind trust, not sight. I don’t know if that kindness survives light.
Losing her feels unthinkable. Worse than the idea of staying hidden. Worse than the ache of restraint.
I check the time and straighten, the familiar vigilance sliding back into place. She’ll be leaving work soon. I can’t be here when she gets back. Not yet.
I do one last walk through the apartment, making sure nothing’s out of place, nothing that might make her feel unsettled. Then I let myself out quietly, locking the door behind me like I was never there at all.
Then I head straight to her office building. I stand at a blind spot, waiting.
Watching.