---
Elena stared at the note on her windowsill long after the lamp stopped flickering.
"Soon."
It didn't say when. Or why. Or what would happen when "soon" arrived.
But it was him.
She didn't have proof—not real proof—but her heart knew. The moment she saw the handwriting, the careful curve of the S, the sharp end of the N, something in her chest had tightened like a thread pulled taut. It was Luca.
The ghost who had never really left.
For weeks now, she had felt him. Not just seen shadows or imagined warmth where there was none—but felt his presence in ways no one could explain.
When she left her room the next morning, her porch was swept clean. She hadn't touched it in days.
When she opened her fridge, there was a full container of orange juice, chilled and sealed. She hadn't bought it.
Her grocery list, one she scribbled on the back of a receipt and left on her kitchen counter, had a neat checkmark next to every item… even the ones she'd forgotten about.
And now, a note.
Her fingers trembled as she tucked it into the back of her journal, hiding it under old pages. She didn't want to look at it anymore. Not yet.
---
Elena spent most of the day pretending to study. Her textbooks sat open on the table, pages untouched, while her fingers hovered over her stomach.
She wasn't showing. Not yet. But her body was changing. She could feel it in the way her jeans fit tighter around the waist, in the way her skin felt more sensitive to everything. Music felt louder. Light felt brighter. Emotions felt heavier.
And she was tired. So tired.
But every time she tried to close her eyes, she wondered if someone was watching.
Not someone.
Him.
---
That night, the doorbell rang once.
She froze. Her heart leapt to her throat. It was already past midnight.
She moved slowly toward the door, careful not to make a sound, then peeked through the curtain.
No one.
But when she opened the door, a bag sat at her feet. Neatly placed. Clean. No note this time.
Inside were prenatal vitamins, fresh fruit, a soft sweater, and a folded blanket that smelled faintly of cedarwood and something darker—something that made her chest ache.
She knew that scent.
Luca.
---
Across the street, hidden beneath shadows that even the moon refused to chase, Luca stood motionless.
He watched her take the bag inside. Watched her look around one more time before closing the door softly behind her.
She still looked small. Fragile.
But she wasn't.
She had always been stronger than she knew.
He leaned against the cold stone wall, forcing himself not to breathe too loud. Not to move. If she saw him, she'd ask questions he wasn't ready to answer.
And if she cried… he didn't know if he'd be able to walk away again.
He had stayed away this long for a reason. His past wasn't just messy—it was a graveyard. Anyone who got too close ended up buried.
But Elena…
She was carrying a part of him now. And whether she knew it or not, she was no longer just his obsession.
She was his to protect.
Even from himself.
---
The next morning, Elena opened her eyes to sunlight streaming through the blinds and the faint aroma of something warm wafting through the air.
She blinked, sat up, and froze.
The scent.
Cinnamon. And coffee.
Her heart hammered. She lived alone.
She slipped out of bed, grabbing the baseball bat she kept under the frame, and tiptoed toward the kitchen.
Nothing.
But on the counter sat a small tray—two golden-brown croissants, still warm. A cup of perfectly brewed coffee. And a napkin.
Folded in half.
No message this time.
Just the quiet knowledge that he had been here again.
She wasn't sure if she should scream or cry. Maybe both.
---
Elena sat at the table, the bat resting on her lap, and stared at the food. Her stomach growled, but she hesitated.
Why was she so afraid of something that hadn't hurt her?
Luca hadn't done anything wrong.
Except disappear.
Except watch her without permission.
Except make her feel like she belonged to him.
And maybe she did.
That scared her more than anything.
Because she could feel herself softening. Wanting. Needing.
Needing what?
His presence?
His silence?
His twisted form of protection?
She took a sip of the coffee, then reached for the croissant.
It tasted like something she couldn't name. Something soft and warm and… sad.
---
That evening, she finally made a decision.
She pulled out her laptop and began searching for a nearby clinic.
Prenatal care. Early appointment. Discreet. No emergency contact required.
She found one.
Tomorrow at 9:30 a.m.
She wouldn't tell anyone. Wouldn't ask for help.
But if he was still watching, maybe he'd find out anyway.
---
He did.
Luca's jaw clenched when he saw her walking into the clinic the next morning.
No one beside her.
No Liam. No friend. No family.
Just her—head up, expression calm, but hands clenched tightly around the straps of her bag.
She was doing this alone.
Because of him.
Because he wasn't there when she needed him.
Luca exhaled through his nose, adjusting the black hoodie over his head. He stayed in the car, fingers gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
He could've gone in.
Could've walked through those glass doors and said, "You're not alone anymore."
But what if she didn't want that?
What if the fear in her eyes had never left?
So he waited. Quietly. Like he always had.
When she came back out forty minutes later, her steps were slower. Her eyes red. She looked around—subtle, cautious.
But she didn't see him.
---
That night, she found another note under her pillow.
"I'm still here."
Just three words.
But her throat tightened. Her hand curled around the paper, pressing it to her chest like it could stop the ache.
For the first time in days, she whispered into the dark, "I know."
And for the first time, she didn't cry.
She just laid there in silence.
Waiting.
--