20. Lilith
CHAPTER TWENTY
T he second we pulled up in front of my house, reality cracked through me like lightning splitting a tree.
What the fuck was I doing?
The rest of the drive had been suffocating. Neither of us had spoken. Neither of us had tried. And now, sitting here, staring at my own house, I felt… off. Untethered.
This was a terrible idea, and yet—
“Do you want to come inside?”
His fingers flexed against his thighs and the scarf still covered the lower half of his face, making it impossible to read him, but I could feel the tension rolling off him in thick waves.
After a pause, he nodded.
I shoved the car door open before my brain could catch up with my actions, and I didn’t look back until I was on the porch, key ready at the lock. Only then did I realise he hadn’t followed. He was still by the curb, watching me, waiting.
I lifted a brow, ignoring the way my stomach was staging a full-on revolt. “Well? You coming or what?”
Something flickered in his dark eyes, but he didn’t argue. He followed.
The door clicked shut behind us and I flicked on the lights.
He was like a statue—back stiff, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them, or himself.
“Do you… want coffee or something?”
His head shook once. “No, thank you.”
Silence again. We just stood there, barely a few feet apart.
Well, this was awkward.
I crossed my arms, nodding toward the couch. “Well, will you at least move? Or are you planning on standing there like a masked ornament all night?”
A pause. Then, after what felt like a full minute, he shifted. One whole step forward.
Wow. Progress.
“I need caffeine,” I muttered, spinning on my heel and making a beeline for the kitchen. What was I doing? He was in my house.
I fumbled with the mugs, trying and failing to ignore the way my hands trembled as I turned the coffee machine on.
Bracing myself against the counter, I inhaled sharply, held it, then let it out slow—like that would somehow fix the fact that I’d just invited my stalker inside.
I wasn’t scared. Not exactly. If I was scared, I wouldn’t have let him in.
No, this was something else entirely—something tangled and restless that I couldn’t shake loose.
Well, too late now. Because I’d done it.
I’d taken this ridiculous, twisted game off the sidewalk, off my screen, and straight into my home.
I may not have made the first ever move, but I’d continued it.
I’d handed him my number, sent him a damn picture of my ass, let him buy my lunches and walk me home, and now?
Now he was standing in my living room—silent, face covered, and impossibly still, like he wasn’t quite sure what the hell he was doing either.
The coffee machine beeped, startling me out of my spiral.
Okay, Lilith. What now?
I forced some kind of steadiness into my body, grabbed my mug, and carried it back to the living room.
He hadn’t moved much, but his coat was now neatly draped over his arm.
My gaze traced the hood pulled up over his head, the soft fabric of the hoodie casting shadows across his face.
The lower half was still wrapped with fabric.
It wasn’t thick, not wool or anything suffocating, but still—it had to be uncomfortable. Stuffy.
“So, this is Katniss?”
I almost dropped my coffee. “How did you—” I started, then sighed. “Never mind. You probably stalked my socials.”
His lack of an answer was answer enough.
With a sigh, I closed the distance, reaching for his coat. “Okay, you can stop acting like you’ve got one foot out the door—”
The second my fingers brushed the fabric, he flinched. Barely, but enough.
I paused, hand hovering in mid-air. “Oh, stop,” I huffed.
His gaze locked onto mine, something unreadable in those deep brown eyes, but he didn’t resist when I gently took the coat from his arm and hung it over the back of the armchair.
“Now, sit down,” I said, turning back and lifting a brow. I tilted my head toward the couch, my meaning clear. Move.
Finally, he lowered himself onto the cushions, and I followed, leaving plenty of space between us—just in case .
Any sane person would have been freaking out right now.
And yet, sitting there in the dim glow of my living room, it just felt awkward .
We sat there for several agonising minutes, the tension crackling between us like a live wire, neither of us speaking, both purposefully avoiding eye contact, like that was the one rule we could both agree on.
I tightened my grip on my mug. “Are you going to explain anything to me?”
My pulse ticked up, frustration clawing at my patience. “Oh, for God’s sake,” I set my coffee down with a little too much force. “You said you wanted to keep me safe? But why did it start? Out of everyone in this city, why me?”
“Because you needed someone.”
The words punched through me, something deep and aching splintering open inside.
I needed someone? When? What?
“I don’t need anyone.”
His eyes flicked down. “You did.”
“Why from a distance? Why not come to me like a normal person? Why do everything like this?”
His hands curled into fists against his thighs, shoulders tensed.
“Lilith,” he said softly. “What happened today?”
“What?” I blinked. Had he just completely avoided my question?
“You know what I mean.”
I stayed quiet for a minute, taking a slow sip of coffee.
“Just… stuff.” The words felt weak the second they left my mouth. I cleared my throat and forced a shrug. “Everyone has bad days sometimes, right?”
He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Creepy.
“Yeah. They do.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I reached for the easiest answer. “No. It’s nothing.”
“It’s something,” he said.
Why was he looking at me like that? Staring into my soul like he could pull the answer out of me?
My stomach flipped. “Don’t try to psychoanalyse me.”
He kept staring at me. The tension curled tight, almost unbearable. I didn’t want to poke at that wound. Didn’t want to go digging through that wreckage just to bleed all over the floor. It was easier to leave the mental flesh to stitch itself back together without interference.
“Look, I don’t—” my voice caught, and I chewed the inside of my cheek. “I can’t explain it when I don’t even know what’s happening in my own head most of the time, alright?”
Maybe that was too harsh. Too defensive. I forced out a dry laugh. “So if you’re waiting for some kind of explanation,” I shook my head. “I don’t have one. ”
I hadn’t even finished the breath that followed before four soft words came from under that scarf.
“Can I touch you?”
Huh?
My brain static’d. Rebooted. Crashed again.
What?
What was that?
I blinked. Opened my mouth. Closed it again.
That was… not what I expected him to say. At all.
Touch me? What, like a fucking museum exhibit?
I didn’t know what else to do. So I nodded. Barely.
What the hell was I doing?
He moved slowly and carefully, approaching me with the caution you’d use when tending to a wounded animal. His fingers brushed my arm, and his palm slid up, a barely there shift of heat over fabric as he reached my shoulder.
It should’ve felt suffocating. I should’ve wanted to pull away. Should’ve— fuck.
His other arm lifted. An offering. A silent question.
I hesitated, hovering in the space between us, body taut with the instinct to flee. But something heavy, old, and buried in my marrow held me there, so I leaned in.
The second his arms wrapped around me, I died. A long, shaky breath shot out of me, like my lungs had been holding something caged and tight for way too long.
Sage and sea salt pressed into my skin. I could hear his heartbeat, fast and insistent beneath me. Was he nervous too?
I curled my arms around his midsection, gripping at the fabric of his hoodie, pressing closer. He was solid, steady—so damn steady. Like a weird anchor in the form of a masked stalker.
His chin came down, resting on top of my head.
Wait .
Was he sniffing me? His chest expanded in one deep, heavy inhale that cracked something in me.
I needed this. More than I wanted to admit.
I needed more . I nudged him back, just enough to make him shift, and to my surprise, he got the hint and sank into the cushions.
My body melted into his, limbs tangling awkwardly as I curled against his chest, one arm draped over his ribs, the other fisted against his sternum like I desperately needed something to stop me from slipping through the cracks of my own mind. And I did.
God, it was wrong. So, so wrong. But my inner child—fractured, hollow, desperate for even a whisper of safety—was screaming for it .
He was unreasonably warm, and the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek calmed something jagged inside me. The minutes stretched, measured only by the subtle flex of his fingers against my back.
“Can I stroke your hair?”
I stiffened. My brain still hadn’t caught up with the fact I was here, sitting in my living room, in this moment, wrapped up in something I didn’t have the energy to pick apart right now. But—hell. We were already here. So I gave him my permission with one word.
“Please.”
His hand came up, slow and tentative, fingers barely brushing through the strands at first, as if he was waiting for me to flinch back.
I didn’t.
A shudder ran through me instead, my body reacting before I could stop it, and I curled deeper into him as his fingers threaded through my hair in slow strokes. Each pass dragged against my scalp, easing the edges of my earlier panic, numbing the raw, frayed nerves still lingering beneath my ribs.
It felt… nice. Too nice.
I was wired with exhaustion, tension pressing in everywhere, but his touch smoothed over it, dulling it, pressing it down until I felt like I was floating.
“This okay?” he murmured, voice impossibly soft.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
His fingers ghosted over my skull again, slow and gentle, like he was memorising the feel of me, like he had nowhere else to be but here, stroking my hair whilst I held onto him, grounding me in a way I didn’t realise I needed.
My breath came easier now, deeper, syncing with the rhythm of his movements.
God, it was dangerous how good it felt.
My eyelids were so heavy, sleep pulling at me, coaxing me under with every soft graze of his touch.
“You should go to bed,” he murmured. “You have work in a few hours.”
I knew I should. I knew I needed to pull myself up, force myself to move. But the warmth, his presence, the way his hand didn’t stop moving against me despite the outright strangeness of the whole situation, it made it easier to stay.
I huffed out a tired, breathy laugh. “No thanks, I’m good here.”
“Lilith.” His tone had a warning edge to it.
“Okay, okay,” I groaned as I peeled myself away from him.
He stood and grabbed his coat before stepping back towards the door. He opened it, but hesitated on the threshold, lingering just a second too long, shadows pooling around him.
“Thank you.” I didn’t know why I said it. But it felt right.
He held my stare, long enough for me to catch something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Goodnight, Lilith.”
I wet my lips, heartbeat suddenly off-kilter. “Goodnight, Mr. Stalker.”
The door shut behind him. And I just sat there. Staring at it, heavy-lidded.
What in the ever-loving fuck was that?
Stockholm Syndrome? Stalker Syndrome? Was that even a thing?
Whatever it was, I had it. And now, I wasn’t sure if I even wanted a cure.