Page 116 of Can't Stop Watching
It's fine. It's just some random professor. This is a public building, for fuck's sake.
But my body doesn't get the memo. My pulse jackhammers in my throat as I quicken my pace, the memory of Brian's hands around my neck flashing uninvited through my mind, his face merging into Mr. Colton's.
The footsteps behind me speed up too.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I fumble for my phone, dropping my student ID in the process. I don't stop to pick it up. The exit sign glows at the end of the corridor, promising safety, people, witnesses. I'm not dying in some empty hallway after surviving a serial killer, thank you very much.
My fingers finally close around my pepper spray—the industrial-sized can Tessa insisted I carry. I grip it tight, thumb on the trigger.
The footsteps get closer.
I spin around, canister raised, heart threatening to explode.
"Stay the fuck back!" I shout, voice cracking.
The man stops short, hands flying up. "Whoa! I'm just… I was trying to give you this. You dropped it."
Between his fingers dangles my student ID.
He's just some lanky kid with thick glasses and a confused expression. Not Mr. Colton. Not Brian. Not Claire. Not a hitman.
Just a student being nice.
I lower the spray, embarrassment washing over me. "Sorry. I'm... sorry."
"It's cool," he says, clearly not thinking it's cool at all as he backs away, still holding my ID out like he's feeding a wild animal.
This is my life now. Jumping at shadows, seeing monsters in every corner.
I burst through the library doors, gulping in the cool evening air. My heart rate finally begins to slow as raindrops spatter against my face.
Great job, Lila. Threaten a helpful student with pepper spray. Very normal behavior.
The light rain feels good against my flushed skin as I adjust my bag strap over my shoulder. I scan the sidewalk, the streetlamps casting long shadows across the wet pavement. One shadow stands larger than the rest, a dark silhouette against the glistening concrete.
My breath catches, another monster waiting in the dark.
Then he steps forward into the glow of the streetlight, and everything in me recognizes him before my brain can even process his face. Dane. Leaning against a parked car, hands in his pockets, watching me with those steel-gray eyes.
The fear that's been my constant companion these past weeks evaporates like raindrops on hot pavement. My body relaxes, tension melting away as though someone cut invisible strings that have been holding me upright.
I feel safe. Actually, legitimately safe—like I haven't since... since... since the last time I was with him, even while he wore a hospital gown and lay unconscious with monitors beeping beside him.
"Tessa gave me your location," he says, his voice low and gravelly. "Hope that's okay."
I should be furious. I should turn around and walk the other way. I should remember the cameras, the invasion, the breach of trust. Instead, I stand frozen, rainwater sliding down my neck, soaking into my collar.
"You look like shit," I say finally, because it's true. The stubble on his jaw has grown wild, and dark circles frame his eyes. He's favoring his left side, where the second bullet tore through him.
"Thanks. Been working on this look." A hint of that crooked smile appears. "Takes dedication."
He doesn't move toward me, just waits there in the rain, giving me space to walk away if I want to.
But I don't want to. God, I really don't.
"You're supposed to be resting," I say.
