Chapter 4. Invaded

Rae:

Everything feels so foreign.

The touch.

The kiss.

Even the sex itself.

It was new.

Like it hadn’t been practiced yet—

Not in porn,

Not in erotic novels.

It felt like he invented it.

Perfected it.

On me.

I’ve lost count of the men I’ve slept with—

Since him.

Since that night.

I’m always looking for him.

Through touches.

Through kisses.

Through sex.

I don’t even remember the last time I really slept.

I dream about him.

Fantasize.

I feel him.

Not physically.

Not here.

But in dreams.

It’s like he’s always there.

Waiting.

Watching.

And when I slip into that uneasy sleep—

He appears.

Touching.

Ravishing.

Devouring.

I’m going crazy.

I’ve never been this obsessed.

Not over a one-night stand.

Not over anyone.

“What are you thinking?”

A gentle squeeze on my shoulder.

Familiar.

Eliza.

Her eyes narrow in concern.

She sighs.

“Thinking about him again?”

I shrug.

It’s beyond thinking.

I’m drowning in it.

Barely breathing.

Barely eating.

Barely living.

I’m just… here.

“What did he look like?” Eliza asks.

The first time she’s really asked.

She used to say: You’ll get over him. Not today. Not tomorrow. But you will.

“Tall,” I mutter.

"Hot."

“Masculine.”

“Dangerous.”

She rolls her eyes so dramatically they vanish under her forehead.

“I need something that’ll actually lead us to him.”

I can’t believe she’s helping me.

She was so against this at first.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she snaps when I smile. “I’m not doing this for free.”

Typical Eliza.

Why am I not surprised?

"He was tall," I start, biting down on my nail as I try to shape the memory in words. “Not just tall—*built*. Like something forged instead of born. Muscular, but not in that obnoxious gym-bro way. Smooth. Silent. Deadly.”

Eliza types as she listens, her face blank. But I see the way her eyes twitch when I say deadly.

"Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes like smoke—gray, maybe? Blue? I don’t know. They were cold one second and burning the next. Like looking into a storm."

Her fingers pause over the keyboard. “Tattoos?”

“Hidden.”

“Piercings?”

“Didn’t look.”

“License plate?”

I snort. “Eliza. I barely remembered how to walk when he was done.”

She gives me that look. The one that makes me feel like a bratty teenager. “Okay, okay!” I raise my hands in surrender. “I’ll go make lunch. Slave-driver.”

“Something edible,” she calls as I stalk toward the kitchen.

I roll my eyes but secretly smile. It’s comforting—the way she nags. Like she’s anchoring me to something safe while I unravel at the edges.

In the kitchen, I whip up something simple—Eliza’s favorite comfort food: creamy tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches. I toast the bread till it’s golden and crunchy, ooze the cheese just enough to make it string, then serve it with steaming mugs of soup and a sprinkle of paprika on top.

The scent is warm and nostalgic. The kind that makes you feel like you’re home, even when you’re lost.

When I return to the living room, she’s still hunched over the screen, eyes narrowed.

“I got nothing,” she says, frustrated. “No matches. No digital trails. It’s like your mystery man doesn’t exist.”

My heart sinks. I knew this would happen—but knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

“Try the dark web,” I murmur.

She spins in her chair. “Are you out of your damn mind?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But what if he’s not…normal? What if he’s not the kind of person who shows up in Google results?”

She stares at me, fingers twitching on her lap. “You are crazy.”

“Please,” I say softly. “Just try.”

She curses under her breath, types faster, deeper. The screen dims. Everything shifts. Layers upon layers of encrypted hell.

We sit in silence as she scours hidden corners of the internet. Places no one should wander.

Pages load.

Vanish.

Redirect.

Silence.

“He’s not here either,” she mutters.

“He’s watching,” I say without meaning to. The words just fall out. Cold and real.

Eliza looks at me like I’ve cracked. Maybe I have.

“Let’s get drinks,” she says. “You need to stop thinking.”

I nod.

Because she’s right.

For now.

Eliza and I need a break.

The dark web rabbit hole spat us out frustrated and empty-handed, and I can practically feel the digital grime on my skin. She leans back in her chair with a groan, stretching like she just ran a marathon. “You owe me a cocktail,” she says, shooting me a glare that’s only half-playful. “I just committed three federal crimes for your love life.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m already getting up to grab my coat. “Fine. But you’re paying for fries.”

“Deal.”

We end up at this downtown bar—low light, smoky air, jazz crawling through the speakers like it’s been drinking too. It’s just the right kind of atmosphere to disappear in, to forget everything for a while.

But I feel it again.

That slow creep.

The press of invisible fingers on the back of my neck. The weight of eyes I can’t see.

I turn. Scan the crowd.

Nothing.

Just strangers and shadows.

No one watching.

I tell myself to let it go.

So I drink. Harder than I should. Eliza makes me laugh, pulls me into conversations with weird, friendly people whose names I don’t care to remember. I clink my glass against hers. I flirt with a guy who looks nothing like him.

Maybe that’s why.

We stay too long. Long enough for my buzz to get syrupy, slow. My body’s warm and floaty when we finally call a cab.

The ride home is quiet. City lights blur past the windows like ghosts. My head leans against the glass, breath fogging it up.

But the second we reach my building, that haze snaps.

My door is open.

Jus

t a crack. Not wide enough to be obvious—just enough to whisper wrong.

“Eliza,” I breathe.

She’s already moving beside me, tense, quiet.

I push the door open slowly.

And everything drops.