Chapter 8
Sebastian’s name lights up my phone screen, and my heart performs its new morning ritual of skipping a beat, then racing to catch up.
My finger hovers over his latest text.
Sebastian
Sleep well?
Two simple words that carry more meaning than all the explicit messages I’ve received from paying subscribers. I curl deeper into my rumpled sheets, a warmth blooming in my chest that has nothing to do with the sunlight streaming through my half-closed blinds.
I scroll back through our conversation history, tracing the path of our digital connection. Two days of texts shouldn’t mean so much, yet each exchange carries the echo of his deep rumble that kept me company through fever dreams and whispered stories until I fell asleep.
Five minutes.
That’s how long I waited after Sebastian left my apartment two days ago before sending my first text. Not because I wanted to play it cool, but because it took me that long to find my phone.
And I had gone for being direct.
Micah
Thank you for taking care of me.
BTW, save this number under Micah, since we’re doing name reveals.
Dating advisors would have said I needed to wait two days, so I didn’t come across as desperate, but my whole career revolves around performance, and I had no interest in playing games with my self-conscious Alpha.
His response had come so fast that either he had pulled over, or he had been texting while driving.
Sebastian
My pleasure, Micah.
How are you feeling?
And somehow, that turned into forty-eight hours of near-constant communication, punctuated only by pauses for his work, and my brief live show last night.
I stretch, pointing my toes toward the end of the bed, then swing my legs over the side. My morning ritual calls. Coffee first, then texting Sebastian a photo of my mug with some silly observation about the day ahead.
In the kitchen, I scoop dark roast grounds into my French press, inhaling the earthy aroma as steam rises from the kettle.
The press belonged to Saint, forgotten in my apartment years ago and claimed through the passage of time.
When the kettle whistles, I pour water in circles over the grounds, watching them bloom and expand.
While it steeps, I snap a photo of the morning light catching in the glass, transforming ordinary coffee art.
Micah
Morning fuel activated. Brain still loading…
Sebastian’s reply arrives as I pour my first cup.
Sebastian
Beautiful. Much like the photographer.
A follow-up arrives seconds later of a photo of a small cup of espresso next to an energy drink.
I snort, sipping the bitter liquid while typing back.
Micah
Don’t give yourself a heart attack with that combo.
I’m the only one who gets to make your heart race.
The ease between us borders on the surreal after years of calculated exchanges with patrons.
Now I send casual shots of takeout containers and midnight snacks instead of curated sexual content.
Last night, I’d even staged a chocolate croissant beside my laptop, adjusting the angle before taking a photo. Any excuse to text him again.
His responses always come with thoughtful observations or questions that suggest he actually cares about the mundane details of my day. When did asking, “How was the croissant?” become more intimate than a patron requesting I perform explicit acts on camera?
Sebastian’s work schedule remains a mystery. Sometimes, he’ll disappear for hours handling what he refers to as “family business.” Each returned text brings a small thrill, each uninterrupted conversation a treasure.
I carry my coffee back to bed, settling cross-legged with my back propped on my pillows as another text arrives.
Sebastian
Looking forward to tonight. 8 PM still works?
The confirmation for our virtual date sets off a flurry of butterflies in my stomach, which is ridiculous for someone who performs intimate acts for strangers online. Yet here I am, excited about watching a movie together through a video call.
Micah
Absolutely.
Still can’t believe you’re obsessed with romantic comedies.
Sebastian
It’s soothing knowing how the story ends. Real life rarely offers such certainty.
The depth of his response catches me off guard.
Micah
Fair point.
Still need you to prove this obsession is real.
Sebastian
Challenge accepted. When Jimmy Met Henry remains the pinnacle of the genre.
Where will you order dinner from? I’ll do the same, so we’re eating together.
Micah
Bamboo Garden? They have a great Chef’s Special Chow Mein.
Sebastian
Sounds delicious.
That flutter grows into a hurricane, and I wish we were talking instead of texting.
Micah: You’ve set a high bar for the movie. It better deliver.
Sebastian
It will.
I’ll place our orders around 7 to ensure they arrive for both of us during the opening credits.
I stare at his text, fingers hovering over my keyboard. The thoughtfulness of his planning reveals more than any explicit confession could. He cares about the small details, like the timing of food delivery, my preferences, and the perfect moment to start the film.
Before I can stop myself, my fingers fly over the keyboard.
Micah
Or you could pick it up yourself and come over—
Before I can hit enter, the click of my apartment door interrupts my thoughts, and I startle, nearly dropping my phone. Only one person has a key, besides me.
“Saint?” I call out, setting my coffee aside.
Saint strides into my bedroom, carrying a bag of pastries from my favorite boutique tea shop in Rockhaven.
When he spots the phone in my hand and the smile lingering on my face, his eyes narrow with suspicion. He plants his feet shoulder-width apart, crosses his arms over his chest, and tilts his head in that way that means I’m about to be lectured.
“So, you’re still talking to the stalker who broke into your apartment,” he says, not a question but an accusation.
I lock my phone screen, sliding it under my thigh. “Good morning to you, too.”
He steps closer, his shadow falling across my bed.
Despite the trendy haircut and designer jeans that come with the perks of his new security gig at upscale nightclubs, Saint carries himself with the coiled tension of someone who grew up watching their back.
The faded tattoo peeking from his collar tells a story most Ashford Heights residents would cross the street to avoid.
“That guy forced his way into your apartment,” he continues, ignoring my greeting, “and you’re texting him like a lovesick teenager.”
“He didn’t force his way in,” I correct, staying calm. “The building manager let him in when I was unconscious with a high fever that could have killed me.”
Saint’s brow furrows deeper, a vertical line appearing between his eyebrows. “And how convenient that he knew where you lived.”
A huff with annoyance. “I told you, he figured it out from background details in my streams. He lives locally, and the sign from the movie theater across the street reflects in my mirror sometimes.”
To me, it’s fate that GentlemanX was near enough to come to my rescue. To Saint, it’s nothing but a red flag.
“Do you even hear yourself?” Saint taps his temple with his index finger. “You’re defending a man who tracked down your real address from tiny details like a psycho.”
I stand, needing to be on an equal footing for this conversation. “He works in digital security. Noticing details is his job.”
“Exactly my point.” Saint drops the pastry bag on my nightstand and moves to the window, peering down at the street below to scan for threats.
“You know what else is psycho? How your new boo avoided showing his face on my hallway camera. The footage shows the building manager, but not him. How does someone do that by accident?”
I throw my hands up. “Because I told him it was there, and he’s sensitive about his face!”
Saint spins to face me. “I can’t believe you’re falling for that line!”
I snatch my coffee mug and the pastry bag before I stalk out to the kitchen, needing distance. “What do you want me to say? That I should cut off contact with the man who took care of me when I was sick?”
“Yes!” Saint slams his palm onto my counter, the sound echoing through the apartment. “He could be anyone, Micah! A trafficker, a psycho Alpha with an Omega fetish, or a blackmailer who’ll threaten to expose you if you don’t do what he wants.”
The accusation stings. “I already expose myself plenty.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“He’s not like that,” I say, my grip on the mug tightening. “He’s respectful. He had every opportunity to take advantage of me when I was sick, and he didn’t. He fed me soup and read me stories.”
Saint’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, you’re falling for him.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He rubs his hand over his face. “Jesus, Micah. You realize you’ve never even seen his face, right? He could be anyone!”
I turn away, hiding the flush that rises to my cheeks. What I haven’t told Saint is that I’ve already researched Sebastian. Not a deep dive, but enough to confirm he really does work in security for his wealthy family. Enough to learn that his last name is Rockford.
Enough to know he wasn’t lying about the scars.
I tap my fingers on the ceramic mug. “He has his reasons.”
“I bet he does.” Saint paces the living room, tension radiating from his shoulders. “Are you aware that Travis Thornhill quit his job at the shipping center? Right after you banned his account and changed your P.O. Box.”
My head snaps up. “How did you uncover that info?”
“Because, unlike you, I’ve been keeping track of your psycho stalkers.” Saint stops pacing to face me. “He closed his social media profiles, too. He’s gone dark, Micah.”
Ice forms in my veins. “I shouldn’t have blocked him so fast. He figured out I identified him and got scared.”
Saint shakes his head. “Creeps like that don’t get scared, they escalate.” He pulls out his phone, swiping to show me a photo of an apartment. “This is his place. Landlord says he hasn’t been seen in days. His mail is piling up.”
The news hits me harder than I expected. The stalker who sent me his bodily fluids knows I identified him, and now he’s gone off the radar. He could be anywhere.
“You understand what I’m saying?” Saint’s expression softens with genuine concern. “This guy is planning something, and meanwhile, you’re distracted by some Alpha who won’t even show you his face.”
“Sebastian isn’t—”
“Sebastian?” Saint’s eyebrows shoot up. “So the mystery man has a name now?”
I bite my lip, cursing my slip. “Yes, he has a name. Normal people do.”
“And what else do you know about him? His last name? Where he lives? His actual job beyond vague ‘security work’?” Saint steps closer. “Have you run a background check? Traced his IP? Done anything besides fall for his attention?”
My lips flatten into a mutinous line.
“Why aren’t you listening to me?” Frustration hardens Saint’s features. “With Travis gone, you need to be on high alert, not mooning over text messages from a man who broke into your apartment.”
“He didn’t break in!” I shout, despite my efforts to stay calm. “And I am taking this seriously. I’ve changed my PO Box, updated my security protocols—”
“While texting a stranger you met online who stalked you enough to figure out where you live!” Saint throws his hands up. “This isn’t you, Micah. You’re smarter than this.”
The accusation slices deep, and I stiffen. “Get out.”
“What?”
“I said get out.” My hands shake as I set down my mug. “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need a lecture on internet safety from someone who can’t even set up two-factor authentication without my help.”
Saint’s expression falls. hurt flashing across his features before his walls slam back into place. “Fine. When this Sebastian guy turns out to be another predator, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He stalks to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Call me when you remember who’s always had your back.”
The door slams behind him, rattling in its frame.
I stand frozen in my kitchen, the silence closing in around me. I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes until colors burst behind my eyelids, while Saint’s words loop in my mind in an unwelcome chorus of warnings.
I want to tell Saint that I already looked into Sebastian. But if I do, he’ll want the details, which will only lead to my overprotective bestie rolling up to Rockford Manor on his motorcycle to threaten Sebastian into staying away.
And I really, really don’t want Sebastian to stay away. I want him to come closer.
My hands drag through my hair, pulling it into messy spikes.
I pace to the window, resting my forehead on the cool glass.
Six floors below, pedestrians navigate the morning rush, unaware of my turmoil.
A woman in a red coat waits for the crosswalk signal, checking her watch while a man juggles coffee cups as he hurries toward the financial district. Normal people with normal concerns.
Not people who have stalkers disappearing off digital grids.
At least, as far as Saint can find. But Saint isn’t me, and men obsessed with cam boys can’t resist staying off the internet forever.
I check the time. I have hours before my date with Sebastian.
Spinning on my heel, I retreat to my bedroom to dress. Then I grab my burner bag and head out to spend some time at CyberLink Cafe.
We’ll see how good Travis was at covering his tracks. If I can give Saint a new target, maybe he’ll leave Sebastian alone long enough for me to lock in my Alpha.