Chapter 8 #2
Because that? That is not what I was expecting him to say.
Me: You sound suspiciously like someone who WANTS him to be good.
Eli: I sound like someone who wants you to keep an open mind. You should try it, Fangirl—maybe you’ll end up liking Jake Hollander.
I narrow my eyes at my phone, a flicker of unease curling in the back of my mind. A whisper, just out of reach, telling me there’s something here. Something I should notice.
But then my stop is announced, and the thought slips away, lost to the shuffle of passengers rising from their seats, the train slowing to a halt.
Me: I’ll believe it when I see it.
Eli: Fair enough. But for now, let’s redirect your fury. I think you should channel your rage into writing a new fanfic where Anlon commits justifiable homicide against the casting directors.
Me: You’re a terrible influence.
Eli: That’s why you love me.
My fingers freeze.
It’s a joke. Of course it’s a joke.
But for a split second, I wonder—if I told him that maybe, just maybe, I do love him… what would he say?
Don’t be stupid, Amy. You can’t love someone you’ve never met.
Except… maybe you can because this? What we have? The connection we share? It’s more real to me than any physical touch.
Speaking of physical touch—my thoughts crash back to reality as someone shoves me aside, muttering something about me blocking the exit.
“’Scuse you,” I grumble, stepping onto the platform.
Me: I’m getting off. I’ll call you in a bit.
Eli: No, I’ll do it.
Me: You know it’s free both ways, right?
Eli: I know, but my settings are a mess.
I frown, not really understanding, but tech isn’t my thing, so I just type a quick okay before tucking my phone away.
Then I step outside, just in time for a light drizzle to turn into full-on rain.
Damn it. Two rookie mistakes in one day.
One, I forgot my umbrella.
Two, I trusted the stupid BBC weather report.
Looks like Eli is finally going to meet frizzy-haired Amy tonight.
When I get home, Pea is perched on his usual spot—the little island counter that separates my minuscule kitchenette from the living room.
“How are you, my boy?” I ask, rushing around even though I know it’s a terrible idea for my sore body. But I can’t help it. I’m dying to see Eli’s stupidly cute face.
We don’t video chat as often as I’d like. Most evenings, we just talk on the phone, and while I love those conversations, I cherish the moments I get to see him.
Pea flicks his tail, regarding me with the kind of judgment only a one-eyed cat can pull off.
I roll my eyes. “You’re totally mocking me, aren’t you?” I laugh, shaking my head. “Like you should.”
God, I feel ridiculous, like a teenage girl with her first crush.
My gaze lands on the half-knitted Halloween sweater draped over the back of my sofa, and I let out a relieved breath, thanking every deity willing to listen that Pea didn’t decide to sink his claws into it.
I blush, suddenly self-conscious. This is so foolish that I haven’t even told Maya what I’m doing.
I’m knitting a sweater for Eli.
It’s absurd. I know it is. He lives in LA, so he probably doesn’t even need sweaters. But his family is from Montana, and he’s mentioned more than once, at great length, how much he loves Halloween. Almost to an obsessive degree, actually.
And honestly? I love that about him.
It makes me feel a little less silly about my own obsession with the world of Persefia.
So here I am, spending my evenings knitting a thick and cozy Halloween sweater.
Midnight black, the kind of rich, deep shade that reminds me of October skies just before the first real chill sets in.
Twisting through the fabric, like creeping vines, are warm orange pumpkins—some plump and playful, others with tiny grinning faces stitched in, scattered across the chest like a pumpkin patch.
Down one sleeve, a ghost floats, simple but expressive, its little arms raised in silent greeting. On the other, a tiny skeleton with a slightly lopsided grin—like it’s mid-laugh.
And on the back? The pièce de résistance.
A howling wolf under a full moon, stitched in silvery gray, standing on what could be a rock but—if you look closely—is actually a tiny embroidered gravestone.
It’s ridiculous and a little over the top. I can already hear him groaning about the ghost, pretending to be unimpressed.
But I also know he’ll run his fingers over the stitches when he thinks I’m not looking.
Despite everything, he’s going to love it.
And I think, maybe, that’s why I’m making it, even with the recent cramping in my fingers.
I feed Pea, take a quick shower, and change into my coziest PJs—grateful for the cool evening air that makes it feel almost like autumn. Then I reheat a frozen meal and settle at my tiny table, my heart already racing in anticipation.
Me: I’m ready when you are.
The call comes within seconds.
As usual, my stomach dips. My fingers tremble just a little when I press the green button.
“Fangirl.” His boyish smile fills the screen, making my heart ache in ways I don’t even want to analyze.
“Fanboy.” I smirk, trying to ignore the way his voice alone sends warmth curling in my chest. “I know your secret now.”
The image freezes for a second—damn spotty connection—but then he cocks his head, intrigued. “Yeah?”
“Uh-huh. You’re a Jake Hollander fanboy, aren’t you?”
He barks a laugh, and something deep in my stomach flips. God, that laugh.
“Ah, man. You got me.”
“I knew it!”
He sighs dramatically, leaning closer to the camera. “How are you, Fangirl? Really?”
I hesitate for a beat, then exhale. “A little tired.”
His brows furrow. “Do I keep you up too late on weekends?”
“No.” I shake my head, tucking my feet under me. “I like spending time with you.”
I pause. My brain catches up with my mouth. And then—oh god.
Penis, penis, penis.
I press my lips together, heat crawling up my neck. But then I sigh, deciding to own it. “I love it, actually.” Ah, fuck it.
His gaze softens, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “I love it too.”
A beat.
“That’s why I wake up at six most mornings.”
I frown. “Six?”
He nods. “So I can catch you on your lunch break.”
My breath catches. Be still, my heart.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat, forcing a small, shaky laugh. “That’s… really sweet.”
“Well, I am very charming,” he teases, flashing me a grin that’s entirely too effective.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, painfully charming.”
He smirks, but then his head tilts slightly. “So, what’s got you tired?”
I sigh, leaning back into the couch. “I was supposed to go to my parents’ this weekend. My future sister-in-law needs help with bridesmaid stuff, and my mother will use it as an opportunity to grill me about my plus-one for the wedding.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Who do I need to fight?”
A laugh escapes, surprising even myself. “No one, unless you want to take on my mother.”
“Is she formidable?”
“She’s relentless.” I groan, rubbing my temples. “And she really wants to know who I’m bringing.”
His lips twitch. “And?”
My stomach twists. I hesitate. “I… may have panicked.”
His amusement is instant. “And what did my dear Fangirl do?”
I chew on my lip, debating if I should admit it, but at this point, what’s the harm? “I… may have told her I already have a plus-one.”
“Oh?” His grin widens. “And who’s the lucky guy? I need a name and an address for the hitman.”
I clear my throat. “Anlon.”
Silence.
Then he blinks. “As in Prince Anlon?”
I nod, wincing.
A slow, teasing smirk spreads across his face. “So, what you’re telling me is… you told your mom you’re bringing a fictional character to your brother’s wedding?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“Oh, it is,” he says, barely containing his laughter. “But it’s also incredibly on-brand for you.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “I was desperate. She put me on the spot.”
He hums like he’s considering something, then leans in slightly. “You know… I could be your Anlon.”
My entire brain short-circuits. I swear, if there were a way to track my thought process, it would just be a flatline of static and then…
Penis.
Before I can overthink it, before I can talk myself out of it, the words just happen.
“Yes. Sure. Why not?”
His expression flickers… surprise and amusement just beneath the surface.
I wet my lips, hands curling into the sleeves of my sweater. “Eli… would you be my plus-one?”
His gaze softens, and when he smiles this time, it’s different. Softer, more real.
“I want nothing more.”