🐑♡୨୧ ₊˚Cinna the goddess of lambs₊˚ ୨୧🐑♡

Six stops. That's what you counted down in your head. Six more stops until you could escape this metal box and the lingering smell of stale air and cheap cleaning supplies.

Your phone buzzed with a notification from an unknown number. You frowned, opening it with a sense of dread.

Six stops until you're home. Or so you think.

You rolled your eyes, immediately dismissing it as some sick prank or a wrong number. "Weirdos," you muttered under your breath as you deleted the message without a second thought. You'd received strange texts before this was nothing new. Just another anonymous loser with too much time on their hands.

The bus hissed to a stop at SunSet Street, and the doors folded open with a weary sigh. A man boarded, moving with an unnatural grace that immediately caught your attention. He was impossibly tall at least eight feet by your estimation with broad shoulders that strained against the black fabric of his tailored suit. His hair was silver-white, perfectly styled despite the late hour.

As he moved down the aisle, your phone buzzed again.

Fifth stop. You look exhausted. That customer service job really drains you, doesn't it?

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This wasn't a coincidence. Your eyes darted to the tall man in black, who was now making his way toward the back of the bus. He moved with deliberate steps, his expensive dress shoes making no sound on the grimy floor.

When he reached your row, you shrank back against the window, though there was nowhere to go. The man slid into the empty seat beside you, his large frame pressing against your personal space. The air shifted, carrying a sterile, clinical scent that reminded you of a hospital mixed with something vaguely metallic.

You stared straight ahead, pretending to focus on the seat in front of you, but you could feel his eyes on you. The sheer size of him beside you was overwhelming his thigh pressed against yours, his shoulder nearly engulfing your smaller frame.

"You have lavender in your hair," a voice murmured beside you, impossibly deep and smooth, like polished stone sliding over silk. "But underneath that, I can smell your exhaustion. And your fear."

You flinched, turning to face him for the first time. It was his eyes that unsettled you most piercing yellow that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light of the bus, intelligent and calculating as they studied your face.

"I don't know who you are," you managed to say, your voice trembling.

The man smiled, a slow, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, but I know everything about you. I know you work at the downtown retail store. I know you hate your manager, Mr. Henderson. I know you keep a spare key under the third flowerpot to the left of your door."

Your blood ran cold. This wasn't just harassment this was stalking of the most invasive kind.

The bus made another stop, and the teenager with headphones exited, leaving you even more alone with the sleeping businessman and dozing elderly woman.

"Fourth stop," the man said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. He shifted closer, his hand coming to rest on the seat between you, so close to your thigh you could feel its warmth. "You have such soft skin. I've watched you long enough to know that."

You tried to slide away, pressing yourself against the window, but there was nowhere to go. The man's fingers began to inch toward you, slowly, deliberately, as if testing your boundaries.

"Please don't touch me," you whispered, tears welling in your eyes.

The man chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your entire body. "Oh, but I must. I've waited so long to be this close to you. To feel your warmth, to breathe in your scent."

His fingers finally made contact with your thigh, and you jumped as if shocked. The touch was electric, sending waves of revulsion through your entire body.

"Third stop," he murmured, his hand beginning to stroke your thigh with possessive familiarity. "Soon we'll be at your home. But I don't think you'll be staying there tonight."

You finally found your voice, raising it slightly. "Stop it! Leave me alone!"

The man merely smiled, his other hand coming up to brush a stray strand of hair away from your cheek. His touch was clinical, yet deeply intimate, as if he were examining a specimen he owned.

"Shh, now," he whispered, his face leaning closer. "No need to cause a scene. I've already arranged for your absence from work tomorrow. And the day after. And all the days after that."

As the bus approached the second stop, you made a decision. With a surge of adrenaline, you grabbed your bag and bolted for the door, not waiting for it to fully open before squeezing through and running down the street.

You didn't dare look back, but you could feel his eyes on you, and the phantom sensation of his touch remained on your thigh, a violation that would linger long after you reached the supposed safety of your home.