No. No, that’s not normal.
People don’t do that.
But she did. She’s here, dressed like a fucking fever dream Barbie spy, and she’s staring at me like she wants me to know.
My whole body goes tight with fucked-up interest.
Because that’s what it is, right?
She followed me.
She saw the logo on my shirt. And now she’s signing up for a membership like this is a normal Thursday and not insane.
This isn’t flattering.
This isn’t healthy.
This is exactly the kind of shit I’m in therapy for.
And I can’t look away.
She sees something in me. Something wrong.
And I want to scream, What the fuck is it?
But I want her to answer it with her teeth on my neck.
I’m so fucked.
Her pen flashes hot pink at the front desk. Her mouth moves. I see Kevin lean in and laugh. Her hand slides over the form like she’s about to carve a sigil into the page with her signature.
She isn’t normal.
She isn’t stable.
And I can’t take my fucking eyes off her.
She doesn’t move like other people. She prowls. She poses. She radiates unearned confidence.
I don’t do needy. I don’t do clingy. And I definitely don’t do obsessive.
But this feels like a dare.
And fuck me, I kind of want to know just how deep the crazy goes.
Easy, boy. I grit it out internally. I’ve got enough on my plate without throwing glitter and arson on top. That asshole Chad pressing charges already eats up my fucking bandwidth.
I head to my locker, grab my bag of trail mix, heavy on the salted cashews and M&Ms, no raisins, and circle back to the floor.
Kevin’s showing Delilah the spin bikes.
She tracks me. No attempt to be subtle. Doesn’t blink when I meet her stare, just adjusts those heart-shaped sunglasses like we’re in a fucking standoff.
I chew slowly.
Who the fuck wears shades in a gym?
The kind of woman who’d ride me on the weight bench after hours, and smile while doing it.
