3. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Harbor
The stairwell light flickers as I search for my keys, and I think maybe it’s just me, but it feels like my whole life is flickering—bright then dark, and suddenly very hard to see. I manage to find the right key just as the light goes out. Stupid, run down apartment . I open the door to a darker living room than I’d expected and nudge the thermostat up on my way past. Freaking freezing in here, what the hell!
Inside, I dump my mail on the counter along with my keys and set about starting some tea. An empty mug waits for me on the side table. A paperback is propped open on the couch. Their silent familiarity should soothe me, but instead I feel out of place. Like I’ve interrupted something private. Something’s off, a fraction of an inch away from how I left it. Like that time my brother ransacked my desk when we were kids, left everything just-so except for one perfectly stacked piece of notebook paper, bent at a corner.
But Ian isn’t here. He doesn’t know where you live.
Maybe that’s why I don’t believe it at first, when I see that the window by the fire escape is still locked. I twist the latch back and forth until it feels less sure, more like what I expected, and then startle myself with a sudden laugh. It’s just paranoia. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s like my brain is a snow globe someone keeps shaking.
The heat’s a little too strong now. A crooked picture frame taunts me from the wall with its charmingly slapdash arrangement. I nudge it back in line and bite my lip as I scan the room. Past the couch, past the table, past my battered blue armchair to my desk. My shoulders tense when I reach it, expecting—I don’t even know what. Chaos? Flames? Another freaky letter? But there it is, like nothing happened, like it didn’t crush me last night with its hollow, unsympathetic pages.
I run my palm over the wood, and the only thing that feels wrong is me.
So I whisper it out loud.
“You’re just exhausted.”
I swallow the words back like I’ll start to believe them if they only stick around.
Another too-loud laugh ricochets off the walls.
Another glance over my shoulder.
The corners of the room keep whispering things I can’t quite hear. Like maybe... no. Like I’m not alone.
“Exhaustion.” I mutter again, louder this time. Then: “Crazy.”
The shaking snow globe is heavier now, the fragments drifting more slowly as they settle.
I make myself relax, because the longer I stare, the more I see how irrational I’m being. I feel foolish now for thinking—what? That someone snuck in and polished the furniture? That they cared enough to open a few windows, give the place a little air?
The flutter of resignation in my chest feels a lot like relief.
The flush on my cheeks feels a lot like embarrassment.
A ghost’s trail on the air feels a lot like smoke.
Maybe the words just... never come back. Maybe the sanity doesn’t either.
The snow globe’s stopped shaking for now, but it’s still cracked at the edges. I’ve stopped trying to put the pieces back together and just accepted that I’m nuts.
It’s easier that way.
I grab my favorite ceramic mug and pour my tea, too hot, just right. It makes me feel alright, even if just for a moment. The smell of the florals, the taste of peace… tea always holds the answer. My hands clench around it like the familiar comfort might evaporate. The teabag bobs against the sides.
Leaning against my kitchen counter, the island looks cleaner than I’d left it, and I swore I’d put a notepad there. Walking around the side, I spot it laying on the ground. Odd.
But you know what? Fuck it. If there’s some random weirdo knocking notepads off my counter, have at er. The shit inside them isn’t useful to my cowboy romance anyway. Which… I need to start.
Eh, maybe later. Lighting my favorite candle, I take my tea to the living room.
I perch on the edge of the couch, and just think, scanning my apartment. My breath catches when I reach into the wastebasket and see the letter, even crumpled and smeared with ink. I smooth it open on my lap, feeling the rough creases snag against my fingernails. That same rush of fear—electric, sharp—trembles through me as I read the words again: “I want to destroy your pussy after you run screaming from me. Such a good little girl, just for me.”
Maybe it’s just me, but the line is either an incredibly bad joke or an incredibly bold proposal, and I can’t decide which option terrifies me more.
My heart pounds as I set the letter aside and drag my writing journal onto my lap. The leather cover is cool against my skin, almost too intimate for something I keep writing smut in.
Words buzz in my brain, bees swarming. I want to, I need to—
— but I can’t.
Instead, I’m frozen here, watching the candlelight flicker. Watching the words that terrified and thrilled me. Watching them until I’ve memorized their jagged rhythm, every sharp angle:
destroy. run. screaming.
They have a rawness to them. A certain violence. The words—and the man behind them—hold nothing back. I want to say they’re just what I’ve been needing, but there’s a small part of me that’s still too shy to admit it. The part that’s spent too long smiling at readers and critics who expect a very different Harbor.
At first, I’d been terrified this was some fucking stalker, but then I remembered that I had actual fans now. Real people who read my work. It’s gotta come with the territory… right?
I stare at my journal’s blank pages like they’re ghosts haunting an empty house.
What if the words just... never come back?
I want to write, need to write, but instead I’m here, thinking over that letter.
My pulse quickens. What would it be like… to have a man… want me so badly, he’d hunt me down, tie me up and.. .
No. This line of thinking wasn’t becoming.
“You coward,” I whisper as I flip past another bunch of pages where a fanfic I’d written of this letter sat crawled in black ink.
You coward, you coward, you coward...
“Coward,” I whisper again, when my gaze flickers back to the letter.
The words sear my mind as I re-read them, this time out loud.
I want to.
I need to.
So I do.
The black ink pen quivers in my fingers, and then I’m scrawling:
“He knew she was scared.”
A soft smile teases my lips. The kind you give your lover when you catch him undressing you with his eyes from across the room, and the whole restaurant fades away...
...until you hear someone clear their throat.
...until your skin prickles, knowing everyone is watching.
That soft smile grows into a grin when I turn the next page, ideas flowing.
My hand cramps, ink smudges, the scent of vanilla thickens. The words keep tumbling out:
“Her breath caught. Her pulse raced. Her fingers curled and her toes tingled.”
The thrill in my chest is almost like an ache.
The joy in my stomach is almost like a bruise.
The letter flutters off my lap and I don’t even care because, finally, the snow globe is spinning with new words instead of doubts.
“Hello, Harbor.”
That’s what he’d say when he caught her.
And I don’t even care how crazy it sounds, but I’m starting to think...
...she wants to be caught.
The girl in the story… I mean.
My hand is cramping from how fast I’m writing, so I pull out my laptop and start typing. Slowly at first, hesitantly. Like writing about this shit will bring it to life, but then I remind myself that it’s just a fantasy and that’s all it’ll ever be.
It’s like my whole life is...
...a stalker at the window.
...a hand on my throat.
...a bruise where no one can see.
But the cursor keeps blinking, and the words—oh god, the words—fill up the screen.
My best friend, Lila, will be furious that I’ve stopped my cowboy series to write this, and I quote, dark smut garbage, but she secretly loves it. I know she just wants what’s best for me, but clearly, that’s this. Right now, at least. She wants me to finish my series because it’s on the cusp of breaking out, but it doesn’t matter because it’s not cowboys filling my thoughts.
It’s him. This, tall, dark and handsome, fictional masked man who whispers dirty things to me and makes me come on command.
Well, almost.
So, I ignore the nagging in my head that she’s going to have something to say when she calls in the morning, and keep typing.
The world outside dims to a deep gray-blue, like the whole universe is holding its breath with me. I’m hunched over my laptop, fingers cramping from the strangest and most wonderful thing in the world: actually writing. It’s odd. Usually I get a text from my father and my brother, wishing me happy birthday on my day. Nothing this year.
Not that it matters since I fucking hate them anyway.
I shake off the memories and bury the reminders as deep as I can.
They don’t matter anymore. Neither of them.
My own pulse taunts me, the jagged snow globe rhythms from that scared little girl who still hides in the corners of my mind, whispering that nothing will ever change. That I can’t write my way out of this one.
But I can. And I will. I am a writing goddess with so much to say, so much to unravel, but first…
I crack open a bottle of wine. The cork, the glass, the first tiny sip... they all bring me a whisper of comfort in this sudden, dreadful quiet.
I force a wobbly smile as I lift my glass in the air.
“Happy birthday to me,” I say to the empty room.
I say it louder, as if I’m not afraid. As if I’m not terribly, painfully alone.
So, I write. I write because now that the words have started, there’s no stopping the flow, the rhythm, the beat that lives inside me, pounding out on this keyboard…
The first scream never leaves her lips.
The forest swallows sound like it swallows light—whole and greedy. Cold air burns her lungs as she runs, thorns clawing at her dress, at her legs, at her sanity. Somewhere behind her, boots crush leaves and break twigs with deliberate menace. He's not running. He doesn’t need to.
He’s hunting.
She doesn’t know his name. Only the mask—black, carved like bone, with a crooked smile that shouldn't make her heart pound the way it does.
She trips. Of course she trips. Mud welcomes her like an old friend. Before she can rise, fingers curl around her ankle unhurried. Possessive.
She twists. Kicks. Fails.
And then he’s there.
Towering. Silent.
Her pulse slams against her throat as he crouches beside her, the mask tilting.
“You wanted to be caught,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “Didn’t you?”