Page 53 of Hunting Harbor

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I nearly drop the stack of novels in my hands.

My phone. In my pocket. Connected to the world.

After an entire month of living in Kairo's temporary cabin with no service and certainly no Wi-Fi, the feeling of being connected again is almost jarring. This morning, Kairo had handed it to me with a soft smile, telling me he'd unlocked the network for me.

"I trust you," he'd said, those three simple words making my heart swell until I thought it might burst through my ribs.

I check the notification. It’s just my agent, wondering if I've made progress on the manuscript. I ignore it and set the phone aside. Later. I'll deal with the real world later. Right now, there are boxes to unpack and a life to build.

An hour later, my arms ache from lifting and organizing, but most of our possessions have found homes throughout the sprawling main room of the cabin. The kitchen, with its butcher block counters and massive island, is stocked with the essential tools I'd need to burn dinner spectacularly. The living area, centered around a stone fireplace large enough for me to stand in, is dotted with plush furniture that begs for lazy Sunday afternoons. And my writing nook, tucked into the corner where the morning light lingers longest, waits patiently for the words that have started flowing again since Kairo came into my life.

But there's still more to bring over from the temporary cabin. My notebooks, mostly, and the half-dozen sweaters I've accumulated since moving to the mountains. Kairo had left early this morning to "handle some business in town," his vague explanation accompanied by a kiss that still burns on my lips. I figured I'd surprise him by finishing the move before he returned.

The forest path between cabins is spotted with late afternoon light, the air cool and sharp in my lungs. Pine needles crunch beneath my boots, and somewhere in the distance, a bird calls to its mate. I've grown to love these woods in a way I never expected. The city girl in me has all but disappeared, replaced by someone who can identify three types of moss and knows which mushrooms to avoid.

Those ones from before? Not death caps. Just chicken of the wood. Who knew?

The smaller cabin comes into view through the trees, and something in my chest tightens with nostalgia. For all its rustic simplicity compared to our new place, it's where Kairo and I truly began. Where he showed me who he really was. Where I discovered parts of myself I never knew existed.

Inside, the cabin feels smaller than I remember, the ceilings lower, the rooms more confined. I head straight for the bedroom to grab my remaining things, but something stops me at the threshold. Something's different. Something's... off.

The closet door stands slightly ajar, and behind it, where there should only be the back wall, is another door. Small, almost unnoticeable, but unmistakably there.Had it always been there? Had I just never noticed?

My fingers tremble slightly as I push the closet door wider, revealing what looks like a panel built into the wall. It's not locked – just a simple latch that gives way under the pressure of my thumb. The panel swings open, and my breath catches in my throat.

Files. Dozens of them, meticulously labeled and arranged chronologically. Photographs spill from the first one I grab, and my heart hammers against my ribs as I recognize myself in every single one. Me, sleeping, the sheets tangled around my legs. Me, writing at the desk by the window, my face scrunched inconcentration. Me, bathing in the clawfoot tub, my head tipped back, eyes closed.

My hands shake harder as I reach for another folder. Inside, transcripts of phone calls I'd made months ago, before I'd even met Kairo. Printouts of emails I'd exchanged with my agent, my friends, my mother from before she died. Pages torn from my private journals – journals I'd thought I'd lost.

There are audio tapes, neatly labeled with dates that stretch back months. USB drives with my name etched into their metal casings. A map of my former apartment building with my unit circled in red ink.

I should be terrified. I should be running for my life, screaming through these woods until my throat is raw and someone, anyone, hears me. But the trembling in my hands isn't from fear… it's from an electric thrill that shoots through my veins like lightning.

He's known me all along. Every secret, every dream, every shameful thought I've ever had… Kairo has been there, watching, listening, collecting the pieces of me like precious artifacts. I'm not sure when the realization shifts from shock to something darker, deeper, but suddenly I'm smiling as I flip through photographs of myself, seeing me as he sees me.

I no longer have to pretend. I no longer have to hide the twisted, tangled parts of myself that never fit into neat social boxes. Kairo has seen it all, and he's still here. He still wants me. He's built us a home.

My fingers brush against what looks like a diary, the leather worn from handling. I open it, expecting more evidence of his surveillance, but what I find instead steals the breath from my lungs. It's his writing; page after page of observations, yes, but also adoration. Devotion. Obsession.

"Harbor sleeps with her left hand curled beneath her chin, like she's holding onto her dreams," one entry reads. "I want to know what she dreams about. I want to know everything."

I'm so absorbed in his words that I don't hear the footsteps behind me until it's too late.

I feel him before I see him—that prickling awareness at the nape of my neck that signals I'm being watched. When I turn my head toward the doorway, Kairo is there, leaning against the frame with casual menace, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. His face betrays nothing, those beautifully dark eyes steadily tracking my movements like I'm a fascinating specimen under glass. Neither of us speaks. Neither of us needs to.

My fingers still clutch his journal, the evidence of his obsession with me. Evidence I should be terrified by. Evidence that should have me calculating the quickest escape route. Instead, I feel a rush of heat spread from my core outward.

"How long have you been standing there?" My voice emerges steady, betraying none of the chaotic energy crackling through my veins.

Kairo's lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. "Long enough to see you weren't running."

He makes no move to approach, and I make no move to step away from his collection. Instead, I deliberately turn my back to him and reach for another folder, my fingers trailing over the tab labeled with my name and a date from over a year ago. I can feel his eyes burning into my spine as I open it and examine more photographs—me entering my old apartment building, me jogging in the park near my old place, me sitting alone at a café, staring into space while my coffee grew cold.

"Should I be flattered," I ask, still not looking at him, "or terrified?"

"What do you think?" His voice is deep, raspy.

I turn another page in the folder, finding a printed copy of an email I'd sent to my agent a few months ago. In it, I'd mentioned a recurring dream—a dream about being hunted through dark woods by something that was neither fully human nor fully beast. I'd been considering the genre switch, but she turned me down, telling me that my fanbase was routed in western romance. In Kairo's neat handwriting along the margin:She dreams of being prey. She dreams of me.

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