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It happened three weeks and two days after the rescue. I was in the bathroom, pretending to shower, actually crying, because I had realized something horrific: I was afraid of Liam. Not the same kind of fear I had for Dave—Dave was a gnat. This was a tiger.
The admirer who fought off my stalker was an even worse hot. the admirer who fought off my stalker was an even worse hot
"How do you know who I am?" I whispered, taking a cautious step backward.
The Worse Hot is not obviously broken. He doesn’t scream at waiters or kick puppies. He’s charming. He’s competent. He saved your life, for God’s sake. But slowly, imperceptibly, the architecture of his “care” reveals itself as a cage. This public link is valid for 7 days
Then came the night I wore a dress to a friend’s birthday party. A perfectly normal dress. Cute, even. Liam sat on my bed while I got ready, his jaw tight.
That prickle on your neck when he checks your phone? That heaviness in your chest when he “jokes” about keeping you safe? That’s not romance. That’s your nervous system screaming. Can’t copy the link right now
I didn’t ask where he went. I didn’t want to know.