Shared Obsession (The Obsession Trilogy #1)

Chapter One

Ayla

The automatic doors hiss behind me as I step into the city night, clutching the brown paper sack so tight it bruises my ribs.

The end of summer lingers, air cool and sharp with the first promise of autumn.

Neon lights flicker on wet pavement, and the world feels both too big and too close.

Shame prickles hot beneath my skin. I keep my head down, imagining every stranger’s eyes reading the fear and mess I try so hard to hide.

This bag, this test, feels heavier than my purse and all the bad decisions stacked together.

I bite the inside of my cheek to steady my breathing, reminding myself that I’m not the first girl to walk out of a gas station with her whole future in a paper bag.

Nineteen. No money, no backup plan, no idea what I’m doing.

Cutting ties with my father at eighteen felt like liberation, but now it’s just me, scraping by.

Weekends are for dancing—earning rent in the dark, sticky haze of the club, where the money is good, but the exhaustion settles in my bones.

The men blur together: greedy hands, wolfish eyes, all of them wanting more than I want to give, all of them paying for the illusion that I might.

Every Saturday, I walk a thin line between what I can survive and what I can live with.

Sometimes I think maybe it’s in my blood—maybe this is the legacy my father left me, his “special little princess” learning to fake a smile and swallow bile.

I shove the thought away, let the city swallow me, and keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

I'm halfway to my car when I spot him. He's leaning against the brick wall, all shadows and sharp lines, like some brooding hero straight out of a book I used to sneak under my pillow. He’s tall—really tall—with the kind of careless grace that says he belongs anywhere he stands. Jet-black hair flops over one eye, and a scar slices through his brow in a way that makes me wonder how he got it. There’s a silver ring in his nose and a motorcycle at his side, because of course there is.

His whole look is a checklist for trouble, but it’s the eyes that catch me: dark blue, quietly intense, and—God, why is that actually cute?

He’s the mysterious that’s easy to mock and even easier to think about later, when you can’t sleep.

I keep walking, pretending I don’t notice him, but I do.

The brown paper bag burns in my grip. His gaze finds me—steady, not the usual quick once-over that makes my skin crawl.

It’s searching, almost thoughtful. I wonder what he sees: girl in a too-big hoodie and cheap sneakers, hair in a messy knot, looking like she’s trying to disappear.

I’m used to men staring, but his attention isn’t greedy or dismissive.

It’s curious. I hate that it makes me want to look back.

I hate even more that I’m suddenly self-conscious, wishing I’d bothered with lip gloss or a comb. Cute, Ayla. Real subtle.

"Nervous?" he says suddenly, his voice low and lazy, making me jump like a cat caught in headlights. Great. Exactly what I needed—a mysterious stranger with a talent for sneak attacks.

"Please," I deadpan, rolling my eyes. "If I got nervous every time a guy stared at me, I'd never get anything done. I'm just on my way home. It's been a day."

He grins, slow and infuriating. "Pretty little thing like yourself probably shouldn’t be out this late alone."

Wow. Sexist knight-in-shining-leather alert. My inner sarcasm dials up to eleven. Of course he thinks I need saving. Newsflash, buddy: I’m not handing out damsel applications tonight.

I arch a brow, letting my sarcasm do the heavy lifting.

"Let me guess, you’re about to offer me a ride on your bike?

Or maybe just your unsolicited opinion? I am capable of taking care of myself.

" My tone is sharp, but it’s armor, not truth.

Part of me wants to know what he’d say if I let the walls drop. I don’t. I never do.

He laughs, and it’s low and warm, nothing like the barked laughs I hear at the club.

"Never said you weren’t capable, darling.

You shouldn't have to." His eyes dart to the bag in my hand, then linger on my face. He steps off the wall—just a little closer, not threatening, just present. There’s a hint of bourbon and sandalwood in the air, the kind of cologne that says he cares enough to choose it, but not enough to make it obvious. It suits him. It’s infuriating.

Why is mysterious also kind of adorable?

He lingers just a little too close. The air between us crackles with something that feels suspiciously like tension—though I’d rather eat glass than admit it.

"Name’s Alexander," he says, drawing out the syllables like they’re supposed to impress me. “But you can call me Alex." His lips curl at the corners. "What’s in the bag?"

Fine. If he wants awkward, I’ll serve it up.

“Tampons,” I say flatly, refusing to look away.

He lifts an eyebrow, barely reacting, his mouth quirking just at the edge. “Essential supplies. Planning for the apocalypse?”

I shrug. “You never know when disaster will strike. I like to be prepared.”

A flicker of amusement shadows his eyes. “Preparation is admirable. Most people panic at a little blood.”

I flash him a dry smile. “Most people aren’t me.”

He studies me a moment longer, gaze heavy, unreadable. “No. They’re not.”

The silence hangs, heavy with things unsaid. I unlock my car and toss the bag inside before climbing in myself.

He steps back, voice deep and even. “Can I see you again?”

I pause, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel dangerous.

Then I smirk, leaning out the window a little.

"Come find me at work tomorrow night. Spotlight—uptown. I’ll be the one in pink, half-naked, and making rent.

" I toss him a wink, catching the spark of interest (and maybe a little confusion) on his face.

Before he can say another word, I fire up the engine and leave him—and his stupidly good cologne—in the rearview mirror.

I drive home in silence, the brown paper bag on my passenger seat practically blaring a siren in my head: reckless, reckless, reckless.

My heart thumps so loud it drowns out my shitty car radio.

The moment I step through the door, I make a beeline for the bathroom, hands clammy, breath shallow.

I rip open the box and fumble with the wrapper—of course, I drop the damn thing on the floor.

Peeing on the stick is the easy part. Waiting?

Torture. I sit on the edge of my bathtub, arms wrapped around myself, bouncing my knee so hard it’s like I’m trying to break the tile.

The clock on my phone ticks more slowly than molasses.

My mind spirals: What if it’s positive? What if I have to stop working?

What if I have to tell some random guy from a bar he’s going to be a dad?

My stomach twists itself into knots, bile rising in my throat.

I stare at the bathroom door, half-expecting my life to fall apart the second that timer blares.

To distract myself, I let my mind wander to Alex.

There was something almost gentle in the way he watched me—quiet, not predatory.

I keep replaying his crooked smile and the way his eyes seemed darker in the city lights.

He’s cute, I think, not in a boyish way, but in a way that makes you curious about what he’s thinking.

There’s an edge to him—dangerous, maybe, but not mean.

That combination shouldn’t work, but it does.

I wonder what his laugh would sound like if it was just for me.

The thought annoys me, mostly because I can’t shake it.

The alarm finally screeches. My hands shake as I reach for the test, heart pounding so hard I’m surprised I don’t shatter the stick in two.

Negative. A sob of relief bursts out—half laugh, half cry.

My legs nearly buckle. I make a mental note to sort my life out before I let another man get under my skin, mysterious or not.

Celebration is mandatory. I pour myself a huge glass of wine and stand by the window, letting the city lights blur into a comfortable haze.

For a second, I think I see movement outside—a trick of adrenaline and nerves, probably.

I tell myself I’m being paranoid. I take another sip, feeling the warmth loosen something inside me.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I hope Alex shows up at the club tomorrow.

I want to see if the mystery is real, or if he’s just another story I tell myself to make the nights less lonely.

Warmth from the wine starts to seep through my veins, making my muscles loose and my thoughts fuzzy at the edges.

My breathing slows, and the panic that’s been clinging to my ribs finally loosens its grip.

I flop onto my bed, half-watching some awful reality show, letting the noise fill the space that anxiety left behind.

But then—there it is again—movement outside the window, just a flash in my peripheral vision.

My heart skips. I force myself to get up, creeping closer, pressing my face to the glass, but there’s nothing—only my own reflection staring back, eyes wide and searching.

Still, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

Paranoia, I tell myself: just nerves and too much cheap wine.

But I yank the curtains shut, recheck the locks, and crawl under the covers.

I listen to every creak and groan of the apartment as I finally let myself sink into an uneasy, wine-soaked sleep, the feeling of being watched lingering at the edge of my dreams.

Alexander

When I saw Ayla last night, I tried to convince myself it was just curiosity that made me look twice.

Maybe it was her legs, bare and athletic under the streetlights, or the way she held herself, shoulders squared against the world like she expected it to push back.

She didn’t bother with makeup or a practiced smile.

She didn’t need it. There was something honest about her—something raw and unguarded in those wide, dark eyes.

I found myself wanting to know what she was thinking, what had put that crease between her brows.

I shouldn’t have followed her home. I know that.

I kept my distance, hung back far enough she’d never notice.

It’s not something I’ve done before, not like this.

But there was a pull—something about the way she moved, the tension in her posture, how she seemed both wary and stubbornly unafraid at the same time.

I told myself I just wanted to make sure she got home safe.

That was it. Just one more block, then I’d turn around and leave her to her life.

But I didn’t turn around. I watched her park under the only working streetlight, check over her shoulder twice before getting out, keys braced between her fingers.

Careful. Smart. Someone taught her that.

Or she learned the hard way. I waited until she’d gone inside, lights flickering on in the corner apartment. Only then did I let myself breathe.

From the shadows, I could see her through the bathroom window, perched on the edge of the tub, hands twisting together in her lap.

She looked so small for a moment—nothing like the girl who’d stared me down in the parking lot.

I saw her shoulders tense, then drop, watched her take a shaky breath as she read the test in her hands.

Relief flickered across her face. I felt it, too, though I barely understood why.

I should have left then, but I stayed. I told myself I was watching out for her, but if I’m honest, I wanted to see more.

Not just her silhouette against the glass, but the way she poured herself a glass of wine, leaned against the window, lost in thought.

There was nothing dramatic about it—just a girl trying to quiet her mind at the end of a long day somehow, that made her feel more real.

More like someone I could reach for, if I let myself.

I know this isn’t normal. I know I should feel ashamed.

But I don’t. Not really. I’m not sure if it’s obsession yet—maybe just fascination, the kind that builds slowly, quietly, until you look up and realize you can’t remember what it felt like before.

I tell myself I’ll see her again because she invited me, not because I can’t stay away.

I tell myself I’m just curious. But as I walk back to my bike, I know that’s a lie, and I let myself want it anyway.