Giving Myself to My Stalker

For months, he followed her with his lens—her face, her throat, the window of her dorm with the blinds at half-mast. He built a wall of her in his darkroom and called it art. He never touched her. He never asked.

She came to him anyway.

When Lila throws the bolt on the darkroom door, she's not there to report him. She's not there to negotiate. She's there to take what she wants from the man who's been starving behind glass—and she wants everything.

No careful words. No gentle first time. Just two people who've been circling each other through distance and denial, finally colliding in a room that smells like chemicals and obsession.

She said don't be careful.

He listened.

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