“You’re not funny,” I snap, sharper than I mean to.
His reply lands without hesitation. “I’m not trying to be.”
30
Nell
Finally—peace and quiet.
I’ve never seen him in full work mode before, and honestly? If he ever dressed like that for me, I’d dissolve on the spot. No hesitation.
Black combats, tactical vest hugging all the right places, balaclava covering the bottom half of his face, gear strapped tight across his chest like he was born to wear it.
Legs? Weak. Spine? Questionable.
It’s a look that’s now seared into my memory, archived under, ‘do not revisit unless emotionally stable.’
Because let’s be real—I’m never going to see someone like him in action again. This is a once-in-a-lifetime, unicorn-grade experience. And I’m going to appreciate it for exactly what it is; exquisite, distant, and absolutely not mine.
I can enjoy him from afar. Admire the angles, the focus, the way he moves like hemeansit.
I just can’t get close.
Because close comes with hope.
And I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.
Boomerang’s fed, content, and currently locked in battle with the robotic vacuum—tail puffed, claws skidding, full gladiator mode. Which means he’s too busy to care what I’m up to.
Perfect.
With the gym conquered, groceries stocked, and my quota of adulting complete, it’s finally time for the real task. The fun one.
He said he’d be gone a couple of hours. One’s already vanished, and I’m giving myself precisely forty-five minutes before mission abort. No excuses. No evidence.
I crack my knuckles, tie my hair up like I’m prepping for my own version of combat, and head for his room with single-minded purpose.
Full spy mode: engaged.
Let’s see what secrets stalker boy’s been keeping.
His room is a fortress, untouched by anything resembling comfort. I’ve been in here before, fleetingly, chasing the cat, and to steal a jumper. But this is the first time I’ve stopped and really looked.
And it tells me everything.
My gaze hooks on the metal filing cabinet in the corner. Inside, file after file. Dozens of them. All women, by the look of it. Probably all the ones he’s tried to save. Or failed to.
Darcy’s name jumps out from the top. Of course it does.
I pull it out, heart tight, and open it.
Photos—dozens—tucked into plastic sleeves, categorised, timestamped. At the park. On her lunch break. At the gym. Behind a register, laughing at something just out of frame.
I forgot how beautiful she was when she let herself behappy.
And now, the reminder lands like stone. This—allof this—is still about her.
The file is meticulous. Pages of data. Movements tracked. Conversations logged. Medical, financial—even her national insurance number is scrawled into the margins like an afterthought.
