Page 7 of Stalked By the Intern

The city lights flicker above, stars strewn across the urban firmament, but my eyes are blind to them. All I see is her face, illuminated by the soft glow of admiration and the possibility of something more. My footsteps are silent on the pavement, but inside, there's a cacophony of longing and intent.

This is the beginning, I know. A dangerous threshold that I'm crossing with reckless abandon, compelled by a force that I neither understand nor wish to resist. It's more than infatuation. It's an obsession that sinks its claws deeper into my very being with every thought of her.

I imagine our future encounter, the way I'll lean across the table, catching every word, every nuance of expression. I'll drink in her presence like the finest wine, intoxicating and heady. And though I'll hang on her every word, it’s her silence that I'll listen to most intently—the quiet spaces between sentences where true intentions reside.

As I lose myself in these visions, I'm aware of the darkness that accompanies them. There's an edge to my fantasies, sharp and dangerous, like the blade of a knife poised over the heart. It's a thrill that courses through me, dark and erotic, the shadow that complements the light of my longing.

I make my way home, each step heavy with the weight of what's to come. Andy Holt, the law student, the man of logic and reason, is fading into the background. In his place, something else is emerging—something raw and unyielding.

"Willow," I whisper her name to the night, and it feels like a vow, an incantation. The streets are empty, but I'm far from alone. She's with me, a ghostly presence that lingers in my thoughts, growing stronger with each passing second.

I arrive at my door, but I'm not truly home—not until I've made her a part of my world. As I close my eyes, the last image that burns behind my lids is her smile, the promise of coffee, and the unspoken challenge that lies ahead.

***

I pace the length of my cramped apartment, each step a drumbeat in sync with the racing pulse at my throat. My thoughts are a tangled web, sticky and insistent. Willow's name is a mantra on repeat, her face an imprint on the inside of my skull.

"Tonight," I mutter, teeth gritted, muscles coiled like a spring. I glance at the clock, its ticking a taunt, a reminder that the coffee date looms closer, a precipice from which there's no turning back.

I fling open the wardrobe, my hands shaking as they rifle through hangers. Black shirt—too somber. Blue—too mundane. I settle on gray, the color of storm clouds, of uncertainty. It feels right. I am the tempest approaching, unseen but inevitable.

The mirror reflects a man transformed. The tie, a silken noose, is a statement—not of conformity, but of control. I straighten it with a jerk, eyes dark with purpose. This isn't just about impressing her. It's about weaving myself into the fabric of her reality.

Heart thundering, I lock the door behind me, the click a seal on my intent. The city is a blur as I stride through it, possessed by a single goal. Every step is a claim, a declaration that she will be mine.

The café comes into view, and my breath hitches. She's there, sunlight dancing in her hair like a halo, making her seem ethereal, untouchable. But I will touch her, not just with fingertips but with words, with presence.

"Willow," her name slips out as I approach, and she turns, that polite smile plastered on her lips. But beneath it, there's something else—a flicker of curiosity, maybe more. I cling to that like a lifeline as I pull out the chair, my movements sharp, deliberate.

"Thanks for meeting me," I say, my voice a low rumble that hides the tremor of nerves.

She laughs, a sound that cuts through the ambient noise of clinking cups and murmured conversations. I savor it, the way it stokes the fire in my belly, fueling my resolve.

Her eyes, those deep pools of blue, meet mine, and there's an electricity that crackles in the air between us. I lean in, close enough to catch the scent of her, floral and sweet, a contrast to the darkness that churns within me.

"Your art," I start, steering the topic to her passion, "it's captivating. You have a real talent."

"Thank you, Andy," she replies, and the way she says my name—it's intoxicating, a drug I can't get enough of.

We talk, and time distorts, stretches, becomes irrelevant. I'm acutely aware of every nuance, every shift in her expression. With each passing moment, I'm binding her to me, thread by invisible thread.

"Let me help you with your next piece," I offer, a gamble that sends adrenaline surging through my veins.

"Maybe," she says, noncommittal, but her eyes are alight with intrigue. It's enough to send a surge of triumph through me. I've planted a seed, now I just need to nurture it, let it grow into something all-consuming.

The world narrows down to this table, to the space where our hands nearly touch, charged with potential. She's opening up to me, layer by layer, and I'm peeling back the petals of a flower, eager to reach the core, to claim the very essence of her.

"Another coffee?" I ask, though it's not caffeine I crave but more time, more of her.

"Sure," she agrees, and it's a victory, a sign that I've breached her defenses.

As we part ways, there's a promise hanging in the air, tangible as the brush of her fingers against mine. I watch her walk away, every cell in my body screaming to follow, to never let her out of my sight.

"Until next time, Willow," I whisper to her retreating form, a vow laced with danger. She doesn't hear me, but it doesn't matter. I'll make sure there's a next time.

And many more after that.

CHAPTER

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