Page 10 of Stalked By the X-Ray Tech

The minutes tick by, each one an eternity, each one amplifying the ache that's settled in my chest. My phone buzzes with a reminder from the hospital for tomorrow's early shift, but work is the last thing on my mind. How can I think about broken bones and X-rays when everything that matters is behind these walls, just out of reach?

I call her phone and leave a voicemail. "Come down, Bella. Please." The cool night air carries my plea, worthless and weak. The silence answers back, a resounding confirmation of my fears.

I leave another message. "Dammit, Bella, I'm not leaving until you talk to me." My voice has an edge now, rough with need. Not the need that darkens the soul, but a desperate longing to right a wrong, to fill the spaces between us with truths instead of assumptions.

There's a rustle above, and my heart leaps. Is it her? Has she heard me? But it's just a curtain swaying, a tease of what might be. No face appears, no voice calls down to either end or ignite my hope.

"Fuck." The word slips out, laced with all the frustration of a man who's royally screwed up. I lean back against the steps, my gaze still fixed on her window, willing it to open, willing her to emerge and see me here—raw, exposed, unguarded.

I leave another message. "Talk to me, Bella. Let me make this right."

I don't know how long I sit there, time blurring into a haze of worry and want. All I know is I can't leave, not without seeing her, not without trying to mend the fragile thread I've frayed between us.

I leave another voicemail. "Please," I beg, the word hanging heavy in the still night air. "Please."

Still, she doesn’t acknowledge me.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Bella

I swipe at the tears that betray me, each one a silent admission that despite everything, my heart isn't done with Jacob.

It's pathetic. He's still out there, lingering like a shadow just beyond my apartment door. I can see him through the window—a tall figure, roguish brown hair catching glints of the fading sun, those piercing blue eyes probably scanning every exit and entrance.

"Go away, Jacob," I whisper to myself, not brave enough to face him, to tell him he's crossed lines you don't uncross. My phone buzzes incessantly on the coffee table, his name flashing like a neon sign of my own weakness. Voicemail after voicemail—I hit delete without listening.

Because I know. I know if I hear his voice, that measured tone that always seems so calm and in control, I'll crumble. I'm not about to give him that satisfaction.

I'm about to draw the curtains when my phone lights up with a new kind of urgency, a text that cuts through the silence. It's him. Of course, it's him. Jacob doesn't give up. He's as persistent as he is meticulous in everything he does, from shooting X-rays to..this.

"I can't stop. I won’t stop. It's crazy, I know. But I'm obsessed, Bella. I'll do anything. Anything for you. I never meant to hurt you. I fucking love you, baby. I adore eveything about you. I’ve wanted you from the moment I first set eyes on you in the hospital. Can you blame me for that?"

The words crawl under my skin, an itch I shouldn't want to scratch.

Obsessed? The term alone should send me running, yet somewhere deep down where I don't want to look, it thrills me.

Jacob, the very model of restraint, coming undone at the seams for me. It's intoxicating to be wanted like that—to be the center of someone's universe.

But no. This is not some erotic fantasy where the hero gets a free pass because he loves too hard. I lock my phone and toss it aside, my resolve steeling. He needs to understand that this—whatever this is—isn't healthy.

"Boundaries, Jacob," I mutter, trying to convince myself as much as him, even though he can't hear me. "You need to learn them."

Ignoring him is the right thing to do. I have to believe that. So I shove my feet into my sneakers, grab my racket, and prepare to slip out unnoticed. Tennis doesn't judge me or obsess over me. On the court, it's just me, the ball, and the satisfying thwack as I serve another ace.

I need that clarity, that simplicity. Not this tangled web of desire and desperation that Jacob weaves around us.

I just need time to clear my head and think.

So, I slip out the back, my breath a mist in the cool morning air. My sneakers crunch against the gravel, a welcome sound compared to the silence of unanswered calls and unread messages. Freedom tastes like sweat and adrenaline, not like Jacob's lingering scent in my hair where I laid on his pillow.

"Focus, Bella," I coach myself, tennis bag slung over my shoulder.

The gym is my sanctuary, the court my confessional. Here, every serve purges a sin, every swing absolves a weakness.

"Looking good, Bella," Alex says as he steps into my personal court.

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