Jett thinks I don’t love him?
I’d embroider it into my organs if I thought he’d check.
Just wait till he opens the bag and sees the chili pepper plushie.
That’s not a gift. That’s a confession with stuffing.
It screams I love you, you rage-fueled trauma cupcake, and I’d let you ruin me again in the name of healing.
On the drive to Jett’s house, which I definitely did not find by stalking property records and performing light, recreational cybercrime, I rehearse what I’ll say if he’s still awake.
“You bit me. Congrats, we’re bonded by blood magic now, I belong to you. That’s why I’m here. Totally not because I committed several federal offenses to find your address.”
But when I pull up, my heart dropkicks itself straight into my uterus.
His bike isn’t there.
No saddlebags. No sexy motorcycle. No way to shove this lovebomb where he’ll find it and pretend I “just happened” to be in the area, no big deal, don’t read into it, also here’s a stuffed pepper that looks like you and snacks coded in emotional damage.
I sit in the car, spiraling at 80mph while parked.
What if this isn’t his house?
What if I misread the number?
What if I’m outside a stranger’s house about to commit felony-level trespassing with a gift bag full of horny apologies?
Someone across the street is watching from behind their curtains like it’s a matinee of Dateline: Unwell and Unsupervised.
Oh my god. They know. They know I’m casing the place.
And if this is Jett’s house, how dare they stare at my man’s windows like that?
Should I wave? Should I go ask them to confirm his address?
Should I throw glitter in their mailbox as a warning?
No. Focus.
If this isn’t his place and the occupant is married and some sad housewife finds this bag, I’ve now delivered emotional warfare in Squishmallow form directly to their doorstep.
They must have done something to deserve the karma.
So be it.
I am the drama.
I grab the bag and strut up to the porch like a woman on a mission from a horny God.
The house is…plain. Suspiciously so.
Nothing screams “rage-goblin gremlin man lives here.”
No dents in the door. No punched porch decor. Not even one single hot-man bootprint.
Still, I try the front doorknob like a totally normal person with no sense of boundaries or fear of breaking and entering laws.
Locked. Rude.
