Chapter Six

The day had passed in fragments.

Emails. Phone calls. Deadlines.

But none of it seemed to stick. Her mind was elsewhere — her body going through

the motions while her thoughts circled back to him again and again.

Every lingering touch. Every stolen glance. Every unanswered question.

The buzz of the office surrounded her: the tapping of keyboards, the low hum of

coworkers talking over projects, the sharp ring of phones. And yet it all felt distant, muffled.

Like a soundtrack beneath a dream she couldn't quite wake up from.

By 4:45, she'd read the same paragraph three times and retained none of it.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but nothing came.

Her body was at her desk, but the rest of her was still tangled in the memory of his mouth on hers.

"Okay," Jenna's voice cut in, jolting her. "You're officially the most distracted person on the floor."

Hazel blinked up at her friend. "Was I that obvious?"

Jenna leaned against the edge of her desk, arms crossed, grinning. "Only since 9 a.m. Spill. Was it him again?"

Hazel offered a slow, almost reluctant smile. "Yeah. We're meeting up tonight."

Jenna raised an eyebrow. "Ooh. Another date? You're really into this guy."

"I don't even know his last name," Hazel admitted. "Actually... I don't even know his first."

Jenna straightened. "Wait. You've made out with this man, had him halfway to

second base, and you don't even know his name?"

Hazel laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it. "It just… didn't come up."

Jenna narrowed her eyes. "That's either really hot or a little shady. Maybe both."

"It's complicated," Hazel said, lowering her voice. "He's intense. Protective. And last night… someone was watching us. Again."

Jenna's playful expression faded. "Same guy?"

"I think so. I saw him again — just for a second. Same eyes. Same feeling."

Jenna grew quiet, then placed a hand gently on her friend's desk.

"Hazel… are you sure this guy is safe? Not just sexy, I mean. Safe."

Hazel hesitated. "I don't know."

"Well, that's honest." Jenna sighed. "Just… promise me you'll be careful.

Let me know where you are, okay?"

"I will," Hazel said. "Promise."

Jenna squeezed her hand and stood.

"You always did like the mysterious ones."

Hazel offered a dry smile. "Apparently I have a type."

By the time she left the office, the sky had dimmed into that soft indigo hour, the city bathed in a warm, golden haze.

Her heels clicked against the sidewalk as she walked toward the rendezvous point,

her breath rising in slow clouds despite the heat still clinging to the pavement.

He'd sent her a location pin — an art gallery, closed to the public at this hour.

She hadn't asked how he had access. Somehow, it didn't surprise her.

The building stood quiet and elegant on a side street lined with trees and antique shops.

When she arrived, the glass door slid open smoothly, and there he was, waiting inside.

His back was to her at first, hands in the pockets of his dark coat, facing a large

abstract painting that glowed under a single spotlight. When he turned, the flicker

of warmth in his eyes was instant.

"You came," he said, stepping forward.

"Was I supposed to resist?" she asked softly.

He smiled and held out his hand. "Come look."

They wandered the gallery slowly, the silence between them comfortable, charged.

Her heels echoed gently on the marble floor, and every now and then, he would

lean in, brush his arm against hers, or offer a low comment that made her laugh under her breath.

But the ease didn't last.

Halfway through the exhibit, something pricked at the back of her neck. That same pressure. That same sensation.

Being watched.

She turned subtly, eyes sweeping the shadows beyond the glass entrance, but there was nothing there.

Just the faint movement of tree branches and the reflection of streetlights.

Still — the feeling lingered.

He noticed.

"You felt it again, didn't you?" he asked.

She nodded slowly. "It's like a shadow following me."

He stepped closer, so close she could feel the warmth of him. "It's not your imagination."

"So I'm being followed," she whispered. "And you know who it is."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he lifted a hand and gently tucked a strand of

hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering at her jaw.

"I told you before… I'm trying to keep you out of something messy."

"But I'm already in it," she said, her voice steady now. "Aren't I?"

His eyes darkened slightly. "Yes."

"And you still won't tell me your name?"

A small smile touched his lips. "Soon."

Her heart raced. Part of her wanted to scream. Another part wanted to pull him in,

erase the tension, lose herself in the safety of his arms — even if that safety was only an illusion.

"I want to believe you," she said softly. "But I don't know what's real with you."

He leaned in, his voice a whisper against her skin. "What you feel when I touch you… that's real."

She didn't respond.

She didn't have to.

Instead, she let him pull her into his arms, her body fitting against his like it belonged there.

And for a moment, the tension melted. The mystery faded.

All that existed was the way his hands moved along her back, slow and

possessive, the way his lips found hers like they were meant to.

But as they kissed, she opened her eyes — just for a second.

And outside the glass, across the street under the glow of a streetlamp, a silhouette stood perfectly still.

Watching.