a/n— okay so this chapter was supposed to be just stoned jayde and toria making fun of bee's stalking but then? the phone call scene happened? and suddenly we're here with possessive flirting and ominous warnings and honestly? i regret nothing! also yes, bee really said "i'm going to order you sushi and critique your plant care while watching your apartment" and we love that energy for him. homeboy's trying SO hard to be subtle and failing spectacularly.
warnings — weed use, stalking but make it romantic?, possessive behavior, symbols getting creepy, red lights being sus
I woke up groggy, last night's conversation with Brooks playing on repeat in my head like a fever dream. Still in yesterday's uniform, I grabbed my phone—no new texts. The radio silence from my cryptic stalker was almost louder than his usual messages. Maybe he was waiting for me to text first, though what I'd even say was beyond me. "Thanks for following me home and being weird about my dead dad's secrets"?
After a shower that didn't quite wash away the lingering unease, I remembered it was my day off. The Chevelle's keys caught my eye, tempting me with the promise of an escape drive. But what if it broke down again? Would Brooks materialize in his too-perfect way, ready to save the day?
"You know he would," I muttered to myself, cringing at how quickly that thought came. I started my coffee—two shots of espresso because apparently that's the kind of day this was going to be—and headed for the balcony. The familiar ritual of lighting a cigarette and settling into my hammock chair felt almost normal.
Almost.
The morning fog was rolling in from the bay, thick enough to blur the edges of buildings into something dreamlike. Kind of like Brooks' edges sometimes, I thought, then immediately took a long drag of my cigarette to shut that line of thinking down.
My sketchbook lay innocently on the little balcony table, and I pointedly didn't look at whatever I might have drawn in my sleep. Instead, I watched the street below, definitely not searching for yellow cars or impossibly perfect men.
A message from Jayde lit up my phone:yo bitch how'd last night go? did government boyfriend show up?
I typed back one-handed, ash from my cigarette falling into my coffee: It's complicated. Like, really complicated. Also he might be stalking me but in a hot way?
Her response was immediate: GIRL WHAT
Movement caught my eye—a flash of yellow through the fog that definitely wasn't going to make me paranoid all day.
Jayde was already calling. I answered with a groan.
"Okay, spill everything right now," she demanded, the sound of her bong bubbling in the background. "What do you mean 'stalking you in a hot way'?"
"He followed me home last night," I said, watching another maybe-yellow shape disappear into the fog. "In his stupidly perfect car. Then I accidentally called him and word-vomited about Mission City and now I'm pretty sure he's still out there somewhere being all... cryptic and protective."
"That's either really romantic or really serial killer-y." A pause. "Did you draw him again?"
I finally looked down at my sketchbook, flipping it open to last night's sleep-drawings. "Not... exactly."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I apparently spent my night drawing weird symbols that I definitely saw in my dreams but somehow perfectly recreated on paper?" I stared at the angular marks, so similar to the ones Dad used to sketch. "That's normal, right? Totally normal sleep behavior?"
"Oh honey," Jayde said, "nothing about this is normal. Want me to come over? We can smoke and try to decode your weird dream symbols."
Another flash of yellow through the fog. "Yeah," I said slowly. "Yeah, that might be good."
Before I could hang up, my phone buzzed with a text.
Unknown Number: Have to leave town. Important matter to handle.
Unknown Number: Don't go anywhere I can't find you.
"Oh my god, did he just—" I switched back to Jayde. "He literally just sent me the most possessive 'don't move' text."
"READ IT TO ME," she practically screamed through the phone.
"'Don't go anywhere I can't find you,'" I quoted, watching the yellow Camaro finally emerge from the fog long enough to confirm it was him, then disappear down the street. "Like I'm his to keep track of or something."
"I'm bringing the good weed," Jayde declared. "And my conspiracy theory notebook. Be there in twenty."
I finished my cigarette, starting a new cup of coffee as I waited. The fog was thick enough now to hide anything—or anyone—watching from the street. But for the first time since yesterday, that weight of being observed lifted slightly.
My phone buzzed one more time.
Unknown Number: You're safer when I can see you.
Unknown Number: Stay close to home. Please.
"Wow," I muttered, torn between unease and something else I didn't want to examine. "Someone's got control issues."
Twenty minutes turned into thirty, but Jayde finally burst through my door in her usual chaotic glory—oversized tie-dye shirt, paint-stained jeans, and a backpack that definitely smelled like her "special occasion" weed.
"Okay bitch," she announced, dropping onto my couch and immediately pulling out her supplies. "Show me these possessive texts and weird sleep symbols. Also, why does it smell like you've been chain-smoking since dawn?"
"Because I have been," I admitted, grabbing my sketchbook and phone. "Turns out having a hot maybe-government agent send you stalker texts is kind of stressful."
"Let me see, let me see!" She made grabby hands at my phone while packing her favorite bowl—the one we'd painted with little stars during finals week. "Oh my god," she breathed, reading the texts. "'Don't go anywhere I can't find you'? 'You're safer when I can see you'? Girl, he's either going to murder you or marry you. There's no in-between."
"Thanks, that's super helpful." I sank next to her on the couch, flipping open my sketchbook to last night's symbols. "Can we focus on the fact that I'm apparently sleep-drawing classified government codes?"
Jayde lit the bowl, took a hit, and peered at my drawings. "These look like the shit you used to doodle in art history. You know, after your dad..."
"After my dad died, yeah." I accepted the bowl, taking a long hit. "He used to draw these exact same symbols in his notes. I used to think he was just... I don't know, doing engineer doodles or whatever. But then Sam—the twitchy kid from the café—he was talking about seeing symbols too."
"Okay, wait." Jayde grabbed her conspiracy notebook, the one she'd started keeping after Mission City. "So we've got: your dad drawing weird symbols, random café kid seeing same symbols, you sleep-drawing said symbols, and hot government guy who's weirdly possessive about keeping you safe." She looked up, eyes already getting red. "Also his equally hot friend who kept grinning like he knew something. What was his name again?"
"Sean," I said, taking another hit. "And yeah, when you lay it all out like that, it sounds..."
"Completely fucked?" She grinned. "Also, can we talk about how Brooks texts you like he owns you? Because that's either terrifying or really hot and I can't decide which."
I pulled out my phone, rereading his messages. "Both? Definitely both. Like, who just tells someone 'don't go anywhere I can't find you' unless they're either a serial killer or—"
"Or totally obsessed with you," Jayde finished. "Which, based on your sketches of him, might not be a bad thing. Boy looks like he walked out of a government experiment on how to make the perfect man."
"Maybe that's what he is," I mused, smoke curling around my words. "Some kind of government experiment gone too perfect. Would explain the way he moves, and those eyes, and—" My phone buzzed, making us both jump.
Unknown Number: Your friend's theories are interesting.
Unknown Number: But not as interesting as your drawings of me.
"Oh my GOD," Jayde wheezed, reading over my shoulder. "He can hear us? That's some next-level stalking."
"He can't—" Another buzz.
Unknown Number: Tell Jayde I respectfully disagree with the government experiment theory.
Unknown Number: The truth is much more complicated.
Unknown Number: And Toria? You missed some details in those sketches. My eyes glow brighter when I'm concerned about your safety.
"Okay," I said, putting my phone face-down and grabbing the bowl again. "Either we're way too high, or..."
"Or your possessive not-boyfriend has the whole place bugged," Jayde finished, looking way too delighted about this development. "Quick, say something about how hot he is again. See if he responds."
"I am not giving him the satisfaction," I said, immediately taking another hit. "He's already got enough of an ego about being impossibly perfect without us—"
My phone buzzed again. Jayde dove for it before I could stop her.
"'Your artistic attention to detail is flattering,'" she read, cackling. "'Though you seem particularly focused on my eyes.' OH MY GOD."
"Stop encouraging him!" But I was laughing too, the weed making everything feel simultaneously more ridiculous and more significant. "This is exactly why I have trust issues. Hot government guys just... listening to me talk about how hot they are."
"While protecting you from mysterious dangers," Jayde added, flipping through my sketchbook. "In a very expensive car that's probably also watching us right now."
As if on cue, an engine rumbled somewhere in the fog outside.
"That better not be—" I scrambled to the window, but the street was empty. Just fog and the distant sound of what might have been an amused engine.
My phone lit up again.
Unknown Number: I told you to stay where I could find you.
Unknown Number: I never said I'd stop watching.
"Okay," Jayde announced, grabbing the bowl again. "We need to make a list. Hot or Horrifying: The Brooks Edition."
"Okay," Jayde pulled out her conspiracy notebook again, already writing. "Column one: Hot. Column two: Horrifying. Go."
"This is ridiculous," I said, but the weed had other ideas. "Fine. Hot: literally his entire face. Horrifying: the fact that he's listening to us make this list right now."
My phone stayed suspiciously quiet.
"Hot," Jayde continued, writing furiously, "the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the room. Horrifying: the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the room."
"That's the same thing!"
"Exactly!" She gestured with her pen. "Everything about him is both hot and horrifying. Like how he texts you these super protective messages—"
"Possessive," I corrected.
"Same thing with him," she grinned. "Hot: he's literally engineered to be perfect. Horrifying: he's literally engineered to be perfect."
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Your analysis is entertaining.
Unknown Number: Though "engineered" isn't quite the right word.
"Oh my god, he's critiquing our list," I groaned, falling back onto the couch. "What's next, gonna correct my sketches too?"
Unknown Number: Your sketches are perfect.
Unknown Number: It's your safety measures that need work.
I snorted smoke through my nose, making Jayde cackle. "Okay seriously," she called out to my apparently bugged apartment, "how are you hearing us? Did you like, plant cameras? Got some super-secret military tech in here?"
My phone lit up almost immediately.
Unknown Number: I have my methods.
Unknown Number: Also, Toria should probably water that plant on the balcony.
We both slowly turned to look at my dying succulent.
"That's not creepy at all," I muttered, taking another hit. "Just my maybe-government-experiment crush giving me plant care advice while somehow watching us make a Hot or Horrifying list about him."
"Hot: he cares about your plants," Jayde wrote dutifully. "Horrifying: he can see your plants."
"Can you at least tell us how you're doing this?" I asked the empty air, feeling only slightly ridiculous. "Because I'm either way too high or you've got some next-level surveillance going on."
Unknown Number: Both.
Unknown Number: Also, you're running low on coffee.
"Okay, now you're just showing off," I called out, but I was fighting a smile.
Jayde was practically vibrating with delight. "This is the best thing that's ever happened. Your hot stalker is literally fact-checking our stoned conspiracy theories in real time."
"Hot:" Jayde announced, still writing, "he knows exactly what's happening in your apartment at all times. Horrifying: he knows exactly what's happening in your apartment at all times."
"You've got to stop listing the same thing for both columns," I laughed, then immediately sobered. "Wait. If he can see us right now, that means he saw me this morning when I was—"
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Your bedhead was charming.
Unknown Number: As was the way you talk to your coffee maker.
"I DO NOT—" I started to protest, but Jayde was already howling with laughter.
"You totally do! You're always like 'come on baby, just one more cup' when it starts making weird noises!"
"I hate both of you," I muttered, sinking deeper into the couch. "This is bullying. I'm being bullied by my best friend and a surveillance expert with perfect hair."
Unknown Number: Your hair looks perfect even when you sleep-draw strange symbols.
"Okay, that's it!" I stood up, probably too quickly given how much we'd smoked. "Where are they? The cameras or bugs or whatever you're using to spy on me?"
Jayde joined in, wobbling to her feet. "Yeah! Show yourself, government boyfriend!"
The only response was the distant sound of an engine, somehow managing to sound amused.
"Okay," Jayde said, standing on my coffee table to examine the ceiling fan. "If I were a suspiciously perfect government agent, where would I hide my spy tech?"
The doorbell rang, making us both jump.
"Did you order food?" I asked, suddenly realizing how hungry I was.
"Nope." Jayde hopped down. "But I bet I know who did."
Sure enough, my phone lit up.
Unknown Number: You haven't eaten since your shift. Yesterday.
Unknown Number: Two Philadelphia rolls, two tuna maki. Your usual order.
"How does he know my sushi order?" I whispered to Jayde as I approached the door.
"Better question," she stage-whispered back, "how did he know we'd get the munchies?"
The delivery guy looked supremely unimpressed with our poorly contained giggles. "Order for Toria?"
"Let me guess," I said, accepting the bag. "Already paid for?"
"Yeah, some guy called it in. Said to tell you to 'eat something other than coffee and cigarettes.'"
My phone buzzed as I closed the door.
Unknown Number: The wasabi's spicier than you're used to.
Unknown Number: But you'll like it.
"Okay," Jayde said, already grabbing chopsticks. "Hot: he feeds you. Horrifying: he knows your exact sushi preferences."
An hour later, we'd demolished the sushi (Brooks was right about the wasabi), done several dabs, and completely failed to find any surveillance equipment despite Jayde's increasingly creative theories about nanobots in my houseplants.
"I should go," Jayde said, gathering her things. "Got that commission deadline tomorrow." She paused at the door. "Unless you want me to stay? In case your perfect stalker decides to make an appearance?"
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: She should take a Lyft.
Unknown Number: The fog's getting worse.
"See?" I showed her the text. "He's even worried about your safe travel now."
"Aww," Jayde cooed at my ceiling. "Thanks, government boyfriend! Way to look out for the best friend."
Unknown Number: The Lyft is already outside.
Unknown Number: Black Honda Civic. Driver's name is Mike.
"Okay, that's actually kind of impressive," Jayde admitted, peeking out my window. "And yeah, there's Mike in his Honda. Your boy's got style, I'll give him that."
After she left, I flopped back onto my couch, still pleasantly high and full of sushi. "You know," I said to my apparently surveilled apartment, "this would be really creepy if you weren't so..."
Unknown Number: So?
"So... you," I finished lamely, then sat up straighter. "Okay, real talk time. Now that Jayde's gone and I'm just high enough to ask - is my apartment actually bugged? Because I've been looking all day and either you've got some next-level tech or..."
My phone buzzed, but this time felt different. More serious somehow.
Unknown Number: No bugs.
Unknown Number: No cameras.
Unknown Number: Just me.
"That's not cryptic at all," I muttered, twisting my ring. "What does that even mean, 'just you'? Are you some kind of super-advanced AI? Government experiment? Alien?"
A pause, longer than usual, then:
Unknown Number: Would it scare you if I said yes?
Unknown Number: To any of those?
I stared at my phone, heart pounding. "I mean, I'm already talking to my empty apartment and drawing classified symbols in my sleep, so..." I laughed, only slightly hysterical. "Honestly? I'm more concerned about how you knew my exact sushi order."
The distant sound of an engine - familiar now - rumbled through the fog.
Unknown Number: I pay attention.
Unknown Number: To everything about you.
"I pay attention he says," I muttered, heading to the balcony with my cigarettes. "Like that's not the most ominous way to say you're stalking me."
I'd barely lit up when my phone Number.
For a moment, I just stared at it, smoke curling around my fingers. Then, because I was still high enough for this to seem like a good idea, I answered.
"You know," I said before he could speak, "most guys just ask for a girl's number instead of going full surveillance state."
"Most girls don't draw what you draw," his voice came through, carrying that mechanical undertone I'd noticed before. "Don't see what you see."
I took a long drag, watching the fog swallow the street below. "And what exactly do I see, Brooks? Besides impossible blue eyes and people who move like they're not quite human?"
"You see truth," he said softly. "Like your father did."
The cigarette shook slightly in my hand. "Is that why you're watching me? Because I see too much?"
"I'm watching you," and his voice dropped lower, more possessive, "because I can't seem to stop."
I leaned against the balcony railing, suddenly very aware of how exposed I was. "That's not really an answer."
"No," he agreed, that mechanical undertone humming stronger. "But you like that about me. The mystery. You keep drawing it, trying to capture what doesn't quite make sense."
"Are you—" I took another drag to steady myself. "Are you flirting with me about my drawings of you?"
A sound that might have been a laugh, might have been an engine purring. "I'm flirting with you about the way you see me. The way you can't stop seeing me." A pause, then softer, more intense: "The way you've filled pages trying to understand what I am."
"Jesus," I breathed, cigarette forgotten. "You really know how to make stalking sound romantic."
"Is it working?"
"Maybe," I admitted, blaming the weed and wasabi for my honesty. "Though it would work better if I could actually see you right now instead of just talking to fog."
"Look down," he said, and there it was—the yellow Camaro, emerging from the mist like a dream. His silhouette was barely visible through the window, but those impossible blue eyes caught the streetlight perfectly.
"Show off," I muttered, but I was smiling.
"Been there all day?" I asked, trying to sound casual as I lit another cigarette with slightly shaky hands.
"Not all day," he said, and I could hear that almost-smile in his voice. "Just since you started drawing me again this morning. After the…job I had to do."
"That's—" I choked slightly on smoke. "How did you even know I was—"
"I told you," his voice dropped lower, making something in my chest flutter. "I pay attention to everything about you. The way you sketch when you're nervous. How you twist your ring when you're thinking about your father. The exact moment you realize I'm watching."
"Like right now?" I tried to joke, but my voice came out breathier than intended.
"Especially right now." A pause, then: "You're wearing my favorite sketch subject. That oversized Hawaiian shirt."
I glanced down at Dad's old shirt, the one I'd thrown on this morning. "Okay, that's either really sweet or really creepy."
"Both," he said simply. "Like most things about us."
"Us," I repeated, rolling the word around. "That's a pretty presumptuous word for someone who keeps disappearing into fog."
"And yet you keep drawing me when I'm gone," he countered smoothly. "Speaking of drawings..."
I glanced at my sketchbook, the pages of symbols practically glowing in the streetlight. "Want to tell me what these mean? Since you seem to know everything else about me."
"Toria..." A warning in his voice.
"No, look—" Before I could overthink it, I tossed the sketchbook over the balcony. It landed with a soft thud on the Camaro's hood.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"That was..." His voice had that mechanical edge again. "Reckless."
"Yeah, well," I took another drag, trying to hide how my hand shook. "So is stalking an artist with impulse control issues. What do they mean, Brooks?"
Through the fog, I saw his silhouette move. The sketchbook disappeared into the car.
"They mean," he finally said, voice impossibly soft, "that I might not be the only one watching you anymore."
"What's that supposed to mean?" My voice cracked slightly, but he was already starting the engine.
"Lock your doors tonight," he said, that possessive edge creeping back in. "And Toria? Next time, just invite me up instead of throwing things at my car."
Before I could respond, the Camaro melted back into the fog, taking my sketchbook with it. The line went dead, leaving me with just the taste of smoke and too many questions.
I headed back inside, double-checking the locks like he'd said. But as I turned away from the door, something caught my eye—a shadow moving wrong in the fog outside my window. Not yellow. Not Brooks.
My phone lit up one last time.
Unknown Number: Don't look out the window.
Unknown Number: And don't answer if anyone knocks.
Unknown Number: I'm coming back.
Through the glass, red lights glowed in the darkness.