What's up, sweetheart?

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎: 𝐉𝐈𝐆𝐒𝐀𝐖

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄: 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑: 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐘

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄: 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗: 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

The bell jingles softly overhead, drawing your attention from the carafe you were filling to the front door. Your usual regular comes in every day at the same time: 7 a.m. sharp, yet you have never once caught his name. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t care; you always remembered people's names when they introduced themselves. But this customer, in particular, always made you feel a certain way. 

Tall, broad shoulders, dark curly hair, tattoos, big dark-amber doe eyes, and always adorned in various band tees and metal accessories; you couldn’t help but be awestruck whenever he came in.

Asking for his name was difficult when you could barely peel your eyes off of him to make his coffee or give him his change. 

And, not to mention, he always greeted you the same way, which even after four months of seeing him made your stomach flutter all the same. 

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said casually, gliding over to the counter and resting his elbows on the glass. 

“Hey, you,” you replied. ‘Hey you?’ What am I, a fucking idiot? “What can I do ya for?”

He pointed across the counter. "Didn't pin you for a Kappa Delta girl."

Your eyes followed his hand down to the faded green letters stretched across your chest, and you groaned dramatically.

"Oh, God, don't remind me."

"So you are?"

"Unfortunately."

A laugh rumbled out of him. "Unfortunately?"

"My grandmother was one. My mom was one. My older sister was one. Legacy status and all that." You shrugged. "Plus they have alumni connections that could basically hand me internships after graduation, so..."

"So you sold your soul."

"I leased it," you corrected. "There's a difference."

He barked another laugh, head tipping back just enough for the silver chain around his neck to catch the morning light. "I knew there had to be a catch."

You folded your arms across the counter, narrowing your eyes playfully. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

He looked at you for a second. Not glanced, looked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "You don't exactly scream sorority girl."

Your lips twitched. "What do I scream?"

His eyes wandered for a moment, taking in the long black nails, the silver hoops decorating your nose, the tiny bat charm hanging from your necklace, and the faint outline of tattoos disappearing beneath your sleeves.

"You look like you'd bully frat boys for fun."

"I do."

"I believe it."

"I've made three cry."

His grin got even bigger. "I definitely believe it."

You busied yourself finishing his drink, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he'd apparently been paying enough attention to have an opinion about you at all.

You slid the cup onto the counter. "That'll be four eighty-six."

His hand instinctively went to his back pocket, then his front, then his jacket. The smile slowly disappeared from his face.

"...You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"What?"

"My wallet."

He patted himself down again like it might magically appear. "I left it at home."

He let out a breath through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. I can run back and—"

You waved him off before he could finish. "It's fine."

"No, it's not."

"It is."

He looked unconvinced. You leaned your elbows on the counter.

"The owner of this place is some rich schmuck who spends six months out of the year in the Bahamas and has never once noticed if inventory's off by a cup of coffee."

"I still don't want you getting in trouble."

"I won't."

"You sure?"

You smiled.

"I've accidentally made the wrong drink three times this week."

"You?"

"I'm shockingly incompetent."

"I don't buy that for a second."

"You shouldn't."

A quiet laugh escaped him as you nudged the cup another inch toward him. "Take it."

For a second, he just looked at you. Then he picked it up carefully. "Thanks... sweetheart."

You pretended that didn't make your stomach flip. As he turned to leave, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "You know..."

"What?"

"I've been coming here every morning for four months."

"Mhm."

"You've never asked my name."

You blinked. "...Huh."

"And I just realized I've never asked yours, either."

A sheepish smile spread across your face. "I guess we're both terrible at introductions."

"I guess we are."

You reached across the counter and plucked the cup back out of his hand before he could protest.

"What're you doing?"

"Fixing it."

You uncapped your Sharpie and quickly wrote something on the side before handing it back. He looked down. Instead of his order, there was your first name, and underneath it, your phone number.

His eyes flicked back up to yours. You suddenly became very interested in the espresso machine behind you.

"So..." you mumbled. "Now you know mine."

A slow smile spread across his face, softer than the cocky little grin he'd walked in with. He looked back down at the cup one more time before meeting your eyes again.

"Eddie."

"What?"

"My name."

You couldn't help smiling. "It's nice to finally meet you, Eddie."

He wrapped one hand around the warm cup, still looking at the writing on the side.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think it is."

The common room smelled faintly of vanilla candles and expensive perfume, with a hint of whatever pumpkin spice disaster someone had burned in the kitchen that afternoon.

You were tucked into the corner of the oversized sectional with your legs folded beneath you, a dog-eared paperback resting comfortably in your lap. It was one of the only quiet places on campus, at least in theory.

In reality, there were six girls gathered around the coffee table barely ten feet away, and they had absolutely no concept of indoor voices.

"Oh my God, did you see his face?" one of them laughed, nearly spilling her drink. "I genuinely thought he was gonna cry."

Another girl snorted. "He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole."

Your eyes stayed fixed on the page. You'd gotten remarkably good at pretending not to listen.

"I still can't believe we made him stand outside with that sign."

"And then nobody even talked to him."

"I did."

The group collectively turned toward Madison, who looked far too pleased with herself.

"You did not."

"I swear."

"What'd you say?"

She took a sip from her cup with a little smirk. "He asked me if I wanted to get coffee sometime."

Someone immediately burst out laughing. "No, he didn't."

"He absolutely did."

"And?"

"I said yes."

A chorus of dramatic gasps erupted around the room. "You are such a liar."

"I'm serious."

"So you're actually going?"

Madison's smile widened into something that made your stomach turn. "Oh, absolutely."

You looked up from your book for the first time. She continued casually, like she was discussing the weather.

"I'm gonna tell him to meet me at Romano's Friday night."

Someone else caught on instantly. "Oh, my God."

"And then?"

"I'm not showing up."

Another girl laughed.

"No, no. Better." Madison leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'm gonna have Tyler and Jake there recording him waiting."

The room exploded into laughter. "We'll post it."

"That's so evil."

"It's hilarious."

"He seriously thought he had a chance."

Someone chimed in from the armchair. "Didn't you guys dump a trash can on him during hazing?"

"That was different."

"We also shaved his eyebrows."

"You did not."

"Just one."

More laughter.

You slowly closed your book. The sound wasn't loud, but it was enough to draw a few eyes toward you.

"What?" Madison asked.

You looked at her for a second before speaking. "Don't do that."

She blinked.

"...Do what?"

"The date."

Her expression immediately soured with amusement.

"It's just a joke."

"No, it's not."

"He'll get over it."

You slipped your bookmark between the pages. "He asked because he likes you."

"No," Madison scoffed. "He asked because I'm hot."

"And he thinks you're nice."

That earned another round of laughter. "Oh, sweetheart."

You ignored it. "If you don't want to go, don't go."

"I don't."

"Then tell him no."

Madison rolled her eyes. "Where's the fun in that?"

You looked at her for another long second. "I don't know."

Your voice stayed perfectly calm. "I've just never thought humiliating someone for liking me sounded particularly entertaining."

Another girl shrugged. "You're too nice."

"I don't think that's what this is."

Madison leaned back against the couch. "God, you're such a grandma."

You smiled faintly. "I've been called worse."

Someone changed the subject almost immediately, conversation moving on to parties and outfits and football games, but your attention had already drifted, and you looked back down at your book.

The words blurred together. You couldn't stop thinking about the poor freshman with one eyebrow, standing outside some restaurant waiting for a girl who was never planning on showing up.

By the time you came downstairs that afternoon, the entire house was buzzing. Not with excitement, but with gossip.

The television mounted above the fireplace was muted, some reality show flickering silently across the screen while half a dozen girls occupied every available couch and armchair, coffees in hand and phones practically glued to their palms.

You'd barely made it three steps into the common room before you heard Madison's name.

"...I'm telling you, he actually waited almost forty minutes."

Another girl burst into laughter. "No, he did not."

"He absolutely did."

You quietly crossed toward the kitchen, hoping to escape unnoticed. No such luck.

"Did you hear about that freshman?" someone asked from behind you.

You looked over your shoulder. "No."

"The one Madison was talking to."

"Oh."

You already had a bad feeling. A blonde sitting cross-legged on the sofa practically bounced with excitement. "So apparently she texted him to meet her at Romano's last night."

You didn't say anything.

"Poor idiot actually showed up with flowers."

Your stomach sank while another voice chimed in. "Not flowers."

"A single rose."

"Oh my God, that's even worse."

The room dissolved into giggles while You stayed quiet.

"He waited forever," another girl continued. "Then his pledge masters showed up."

"They told him Madison was waiting downstairs."

"In the basement."

You slowly lowered the mug you'd been reaching for. "...Romano's has a basement?"

"It rents out the lower level for parties."

Someone snorted. "They took him down there and made him chug like half a bottle of vodka."

"No, it was whiskey."

"I heard it was tequila."

"They made him eat dog food."

"They shaved his head."

"They wrote all over him with Sharpie."

"I heard they made him call his mom drunk and then run across the freeway."

The details changed with every person who spoke, each version somehow becoming more ridiculous than the last, but the laughter never stopped.

The point wasn't what had happened; the point was that everyone thought it was funny.

One girl looked up from her phone. "I heard his name's Gareth."

Another shrugged. "Whatever it is, he's definitely dropping."

Madison herself wandered into the room a moment later, completely unfazed, grabbing a yogurt from the refrigerator as if they were discussing the weather instead of another human being.

The second she sat down, someone asked, "Did he actually bring you flowers?"

She grinned. "Apparently."

The room erupted again.

You stared at her, and she noticed, staring right back. "What?"

"You knew he was going to."

"So?"

"So you still sent him there."

Madison looked genuinely confused by your expression. "It was a joke."

"No," you said quietly. "It wasn't."

She rolled her eyes. "He's a frat pledge. They'll haze him either way."

"That doesn't mean you had to help."

"Oh, my God." She laughed through the words. "Are you actually feeling bad for him?"

You looked around the room; nobody else seemed bothered. Some of them were still laughing. One girl was already recounting the story over FaceTime to somebody else.

Finally, you looked back at Madison. "I just think if someone asks you on a date and you're not interested..." You shrugged, "...you could just say no."

For a brief second, nobody said anything. Then Madison smirked. "You are so weird."

Another girl nodded. "Seriously."

You looked down at your coffee for a moment before forcing a small grin onto your face, one that had become second nature over the years.

"Whatever," you said with a little shrug. "I won't be “weird” once I bring you all free pastries after work."

That immediately changed the mood. Madison gasped dramatically. "Are we talking muffins or those chocolate croissants?"

"The croissants."

"I take everything back."

Another girl pointed at you from across the room. "See? This is why we keep you around."

"For my sparkling personality?"

"No."

"The day-old baked goods."

A couple of them laughed, the conversation effortlessly drifting away from Gareth and onto weekend plans, football games, and who was wearing what to Saturday night's mixer. You let them; it was easier.

You'd long since figured out that there wasn't much point in arguing. They'd laugh, call you sensitive, tell you to lighten up, and move on without giving it another thought.

So instead, you simply grabbed your bag from beside the stairs, waved over your shoulder, and headed for work. The walk into town did little to shake the conversation from your head.

You found yourself thinking about the boy you'd never met, sitting alone at Romano's with flowers in his hand, probably checking the door every few minutes with that tiny flicker of hope that somebody was actually going to show up.

The image lingered even as you unlocked the café and tied your apron around your waist.

Your afternoon shifts were usually uneventful.

A handful of students hiding behind laptops, professors grading papers over americanos, the occasional frazzled parent trying to wrangle a screaming toddler with a blueberry scone.

Which was exactly why, barely an hour into your shift, the familiar jingle above the front door made your head snap up.

You blinked. For a second, you genuinely thought you'd imagined him.

Eddie stood just inside the entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, curls a little windblown from outside.

He looked around the café until his eyes landed on yours; a slow smile spread across his face.

"Well, this is new."

You couldn't help smiling back. "It is."

He wandered over to the counter, looking around theatrically. "I was beginning to think they kept you in a little cabinet overnight and only took you out at seven in the morning."

You laughed. "Nope."

"So you're actually a real person."

"Allegedly."

"Huh."

He rested his elbows on the counter. "I kinda liked the mysterious coffee cryptid theory better."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be."

He glanced up at the menu before looking right back at you. "So... this is your afternoon shift?"

You nodded. "Covering for somebody."

"I almost didn't come in."

"No?"

"Nah."

He smiled to himself. "Glad I did now."

You leaned against the espresso machine, folding your arms as he dug around in his pockets for cash. "So."

"So?" he echoed.

You gave him a pointed look. "You never called."

His hand froze for a fraction of a second before he let out a quiet, guilty laugh. "...Yeah."

"'Yeah?'"

"I know."

"I gave you my number and everything."

"I noticed."

"And then?"

"And then..." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely apologetic. "I had a really long night."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's the excuse we're going with?"

"No, that's the truth."

The teasing smile faded just enough that you immediately felt bad for pushing.

He looked down at the countertop, absentmindedly tracing one of the little scratches in the laminate with his thumb.

"One of my friends ended up in the hospital."

Your expression softened. "Oh."

"Some asshole fraternity hazing."

You didn't say anything.

"He got hurt pretty bad."

The words landed in your chest like a stone.

You'd spent all afternoon trying not to think about Gareth, trying to convince yourself that maybe the stories had been exaggerated through the campus rumor mill. Suddenly you weren't so sure.

Eddie exhaled through his nose. "I was there until like three in the morning."

"Is he okay?"

"He will be." His jaw tightened. "He's tough."

You nodded quietly. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged, but it wasn't convincing. "It sucks."

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then he shook himself out of it with a tired smile. "On the bright side, he's done with all that now."

"What do you mean?"

"He's dropping."

"Dropping?"

"The fraternity."

You nodded once. "Oh."

"He was only doing it because he thought that's what college was supposed to be."

"And now?"

Eddie smiled, though this one looked considerably more genuine. "Now he's transferring over to ours."

You blinked. "You have a fraternity?"

He looked almost offended. "I know. Shocking."

"I definitely didn't pin you for that type."

He laughed. "That's exactly what I said about your sorority."

"Touché."

"Ours isn't..." He searched for the right word. "One of the big campus ones."

"The terrifying Greek Row mansions?"

He nodded. "Yeah, definitely not that."

"So what is it?"

He shrugged. "A couple of guys living in a run-down house that desperately needs a new roof."

"Very prestigious."

"Extremely."

"I'm assuming there are matching sweaters."

"Oh, absolutely not."

"No little hand signs?"

"The only sign we’ll have is Gareth flipping everybody off when they make him do dishes."

You couldn't help laughing. "And people voluntarily join this organization?"

"Barely."

"What do you even do?"

He smiled. "Band practice in the basement. Movie nights. Cookouts when we can afford burgers instead of hot dogs. Other…stuff."

"So..."

"So?"

"It isn't really a fraternity."

His grin spread wider. "No."

"It sounds like a bunch of guys who accidentally signed a lease together."

"You’d be correct."

"I knew it."

He leaned against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "We've got a house, we've got letters on the front, we've got paperwork with the university."

"And?"

"And mostly we just look after each other."

Something about the way he said it made your heart ache. Your thoughts drifted back to Gareth, to whispered conversations and laughter echoing through the sorority house that afternoon.

Without thinking, you smiled softly. "I think I like yours better."

Then, with impeccable timing, the espresso machine behind you let out a deafening hiss that made both of you jump. You burst into laughter, and Eddie looked at the machine.

"I think it disagrees."

"I think it's jealous."

"Of me?"

"No."

"The hot dogs."

He looked deeply offended. "They're actually pretty good."

"I don't believe that for a second."

"Come over sometime and find out."

The words came out so naturally that neither of you acknowledged them for a beat. Then his eyes widened ever so slightly, as did your own.

He cleared his throat. "I mean..."

You smiled despite yourself. "I know what you meant."

The next week settled into something dangerously close to a routine.

Every morning at seven on the dot, the bell above the café door would jingle, and Eddie would stroll in with his curls still a little messy from sleep and some new band shirt you'd inevitably spend the next five minutes trying not to stare at.

Some mornings he'd stay for all of three minutes, grabbing his coffee before rushing off to class.

Other mornings he'd linger against the counter while you cleaned the espresso machine or restocked cups, making conversation about whatever happened to cross his mind.

Professors he couldn't stand, the guitar amp that had decided to die on him over the weekend, a stray cat that had apparently moved into the back porch of his fraternity house and now refused to leave.

You learned he always picked the marshmallows out of Lucky Charms first. He learned you read at the counter whenever business was slow. You discovered he couldn't pronounce the name of the French pastry on the menu to save his life and would instead point at it with complete confidence until you handed it over.

And every single morning, without fail, he'd greet you exactly the same.

"Mornin', sweetheart."

By Friday, you had unfortunately reached the point where hearing it from anybody else would probably feel wrong.

He still hadn't asked you on a date, and you still hadn't asked him. Neither of you seemed particularly interested in rushing whatever this was.

It was comfortable, easy. Enough so that you found yourself smiling whenever you looked up and saw him walking through the door.

Which was exactly why, hours later, sitting barefoot on one of the stools in the sorority kitchen with a mug of tea and a textbook open in front of you, the sharp ring of the landline nearly made you spill it.

The house phone almost never rang; everyone had cell phones. For a second, nobody moved.

Then one of the girls shouted from upstairs, "Can somebody get that?"

You sighed, slid off the stool, and wandered over. "Hello?"

Nothing, just soft static. You frowned. "...Hello?"

Then a man's voice, low and calm. "Madison there?"

You glanced toward the staircase. "Yeah. Hold on."

"Thanks."

Something about it felt...odd. Not threatening, just strange.

His voice was too even, too measured, almost like he was deliberately trying not to sound recognizable.

You covered the receiver with your hand. "Madison!"

A moment later she came clattering downstairs in fuzzy slippers and an oversized sweatshirt. "For me?"

"So he says."

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "If it's Tyler, tell him I'm busy."

You handed her the phone anyway. She tucked it between her shoulder and ear and wandered toward the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

You could still hear the occasional muffled sound of her voice, but not enough to make out words.

You returned to your tea. Barely thirty seconds passed.

Then, "What the fuck?"

Her voice echoed down the hallway. A moment later, Madison stormed back into the kitchen, looking thoroughly annoyed, hanging up the receiver hard enough that it rattled against the wall.

"What happened?" another girl asked from the doorway.

Madison crossed her arms. "Some creep."

"What creep?"

"I don't know."

She looked genuinely irritated. "He kept asking what I was wearing."

A chorus of disgust immediately followed. "Ew."

"What a freak."

"He knew my name."

One of the girls frowned. "Maybe it was Tyler messing with you."

"It wasn't Tyler."

"How do you know?"

"I know Tyler's voice."

Another girl leaned against the counter. "So what'd he say?"

Madison mimicked a deeper voice. "'What color shirt are you wearing, Madison?'" She rolled her eyes dramatically. "I told him to fuck off."

Someone laughed nervously. "Probably just some drunk guy."

"Probably."

Madison grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "But seriously,” she shivered, "It was creepy."

The conversation moved on almost as quickly as it'd started. By the time everyone drifted back upstairs, the phone call had already become another funny little story to tell over drinks.

You looked over at the silent receiver still hanging on the kitchen wall. For reasons you couldn't explain, you couldn't shake the feeling that the voice on the other end hadn't sounded drunk at all.

If anything, it had sounded patient.

By ten-thirty, the house had emptied almost completely. Doors had slammed, music had drifted down the front steps, and the collective cloud of perfume and hairspray had finally dissipated enough for the place to feel like it could breathe again.

You'd declined the mixer without much thought. 

The excuse had been homework. The reality was that spending your Friday night curled up on the couch with tea and a book sounded infinitely more appealing than making awkward conversation with finance majors wearing pastel polos.

The old grandfather clock in the foyer chimed once, then silence settled back over the house. You turned another page before the landline rang. The sound made you jump hard enough to nearly drop your mug.

You glanced toward the hallway. Once. Twice. Three rings. With nobody else home, you finally stood and crossed the hardwood floor.

"Hello?"

A brief pause of staticky silence. Then, "Hi."

The same voice. Low, calm, almost pleasant. You frowned ever so slightly.

"...Hi."

"I was hoping somebody would answer."

"You've got somebody."

A quiet chuckle. "I guess I do."

You rested your shoulder against the wall. "Can I help you?"

"I was looking for Madison."

"They're all out."

"Oh." The disappointment sounded almost genuine. "When will they be back?"

You hesitated. "I'm... not really sure."

"That's okay." Another brief silence. "You stayed home?"

You blinked. "Yeah."

"Homework?"

"...Something like that."

"You don't seem like the mixer type."

A tiny smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. "I guess not."

"You'd rather read."

Your smile vanished as you looked down at the paperback still sitting open on the couch.

"...Lucky guess."

"I suppose." His voice remained perfectly even. Comfortable, like talking to somebody over late-night radio.

"What're you reading?"

You glanced toward the cover. "'Rebecca.'"

"I've always liked that one."

"You've read it?"

"I've read lots of things."

"Hm."

"You sound surprised."

"A little."

"I disappoint you?"

"No."

You laughed softly. "I just wasn't expecting literary recommendations from mysterious men calling sorority houses."

Another quiet laugh. "Fair enough."

The conversation drifted for another minute. Movies. Coffee. The weather. Nothing strange, nothing threatening.

And yet something about it continued to make the hairs on your arms stand up. You couldn't have explained why.

Headlights suddenly swept across the front windows. Outside came the unmistakable sound of half a dozen girls talking over one another before the front door burst open.

Laughter. Music still playing from somebody's phone. Someone yelling that they'd lost a shoe.

You looked toward the foyer. "They're back."

"Already?"

"Looks like it."

The voice was quiet for a moment. Then, "Madison came home in the black heels, right?"

Your stomach tightened as you slowly turned toward the front windows. You couldn't see anyone outside. "...Yeah."

"The silver dress looked nice on her."

Your grip on the receiver tightened almost painfully. How...

The girls continued piling into the foyer, completely oblivious.

Madison stumbled in near the back of the group, kicking off exactly the pair of black heels he'd just described.

Your pulse began to climb, while the voice remained calm. "Could you hand her the phone?"

For one impossible second, you just stood there, your brain trying desperately to make sense of it.

Maybe he'd seen them leave. Maybe he'd driven by. Maybe...

Madison noticed you standing there. "For me?"

You looked from her... to the receiver in your hand... then nodded slowly. "I think so."

She rolled her eyes dramatically and took it. "Hello?"

You watched her expression change almost instantly; the smug annoyance disappeared. "What?"

Silence. Her face lost color. "No, that's not funny." Another pause. 

The room around her was still loud with drunken conversation, nobody paying much attention, but Madison wasn't listening to any of it anymore. Her fingers tightened around the receiver.

"Who is this?"

Silence. Then whatever was said next made her visibly stiffen. "No."

Another pause. "I said no." Her voice had become quieter. Not angry anymore, but scared. You took an unconscious step toward her.

Madison swallowed. "...How do you know that?"

Nothing. Her breathing changed, and the color drained completely from her face. "Stop it."

Another pause. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Please stop."

The laughter in the foyer had finally begun to die down as people were starting to notice. One of the girls frowned.

"Mads?"

Madison didn't answer. She was staring at the floor now, eyes wide and unfocused.

Then, without another word, she slowly lowered the receiver back onto its cradle and the line clicked dead.

Nobody spoke for several seconds. Finally, someone forced a laugh. "...Who was it?"

Madison didn't look up; her voice came out barely audible. "I..."

She swallowed hard. "I don't know."

Then she looked at you. Not annoyed, not embarrassed, but terrified. And for the first time since you'd met her, there wasn't a trace of arrogance left on her face.

Madison was still staring at the phone like it had personally offended her, one hand wrapped tightly around the edge of the kitchen counter.

Ashley was the first to break the silence. "...Madison?"

She didn't answer. "Madison, what did he say?"

Another girl laughed uneasily, the sound forced and far too loud. "Please don't tell me you actually got freaked out by some loser prank caller."

Madison slowly looked up. "He..." She swallowed. "He knew what I was wearing."

The room went quiet.

Ashley frowned. "What?"

"He described my dress."

Someone scoffed immediately. "He probably saw you leave."

"No." Madison shook her head. "He described it after I got home."

Another girl chimed in. "Maybe somebody from the mixer followed you guys back."

Madison wasn't listening anymore. "He knew I changed my shoes."

"What?"

"The heels."

Her breathing had become noticeably uneven. "He told me I came home in the black heels. The ones I kept in my purse to walk home in.”

A couple of girls exchanged uncertain looks. Still, nobody seemed genuinely concerned, until Madison spoke again.

"He asked me if I liked my room."

Your stomach sank. "What do you mean?"

Madison looked toward the staircase without realizing she'd done it. "He asked if I liked the poster over my bed. He asked if I still slept with my closet door open."

Nobody laughed this time. Madison's voice was barely audible now. "And then..."

She looked like she didn't even want to repeat it. "He said the window sticks when you try to close it all the way."

You felt every hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Madison suddenly lurched toward the front door, fumbling with the deadbolt before checking it once. Twice. Three times. Then she checked the handle anyway.

Ashley followed after her. "Madison—"

She was already moving toward the kitchen windows, yanking the curtains shut before checking those locks too. Then the back door. Then another window.

One of the girls nervously laughed. "Jesus Christ."

Madison ignored her completely. She was already halfway toward the foyer windows.

Ashley finally caught her wrist. "Hey."

Madison looked at her with genuinely panicked eyes. "What if somebody was watching us?"

Ashley glanced around at everyone else before lowering her voice. "Mads... think about it."

She didn't answer.

"The Pi Kap boys."

Madison frowned. "What?"

"They're messing with you."

Another girl immediately nodded. "Oh my God, obviously."

Ashley crossed her arms. "You dumped that drink on that guy tonight."

"So?"

"So now his buddies are probably trying to freak you out."

Someone else chimed in. "They probably had somebody parked outside the house."

"They know where you live."

"They've all been here for parties."

"And your room's literally been on your Instagram."

"They know what your room looks like."

"They know your outfits."

"They know what shoes you wear."

"They probably saw you come home."

The explanation settled over the room almost instantly; relief was contagious. Another girl laughed.

"Honestly? That's kind of a good prank."

Madison didn't laugh, but Ashley squeezed her shoulder. "It's just some pissed-off frat guys."

"They're trying to scare you because of it."

"They're assholes."

"But that's all it is."

For a long moment, Madison stood perfectly still. Then, slowly...

"...You think so?"

Ashley smiled. "I know so."

Another girl chimed in from the couch. "They're just trying to get in your head."

"And judging by this little performance..." She gestured vaguely toward the six different locks Madison had just checked. "...it's working."

A couple of people laughed again, tentatively this time. Madison finally managed a weak smile.

"Yeah."

Ashley nudged her toward the stairs. "Go to bed."

"I'm serious. Sleep it off. Tomorrow you'll realize it was some sophomore with too much time on his hands."

Eventually, Madison nodded and headed upstairs. The conversations slowly resumed. Music started playing from somebody's phone again.

Someone ordered late-night pizza. Within ten minutes, the atmosphere had almost completely recovered.

You lingered in the kitchen a little longer than everyone else, and your eyes drifted to the front window.

The curtains were drawn, and you couldn't see outside. For some reason...

You couldn't shake the feeling that someone might still be looking in anyway.

Sleep never really settled in after the phone call.

You'd drifted off eventually, more from exhaustion than anything else, but it wasn't restful.

Every creak of the old house seemed louder than usual, every shifting pipe enough to tug you halfway back to consciousness.

By the time you finally opened your eyes again, the room was dark enough that you had to squint to make out the red numbers glowing on your alarm clock.

2:43 a.m.

You let out a quiet sigh, pushed your blankets aside, and shuffled toward the door, still half asleep. The hallway was almost completely dark.

Only the tiny stained-glass lamp at the end of the corridor cast enough light to keep you from bumping into the walls, throwing patches of muted color across the hardwood floor.

You rubbed at your eyes and headed toward the bathroom as the floorboards creaked softly beneath your feet.

Halfway there, another one answered. Not yours.

You stopped. Silence.

You frowned, listening. Nothing, probably one of the girls getting water.

You took another cautious step. And suddenly a figure dressed entirely in black stepped out from the darkness at the opposite end of the hallway, and you froze.

Your brain didn't even have time to process what you were looking at.

A black hood. Long robe. The pale, impossibly familiar ghost mask catching just enough light to make the empty eyes seem alive. Every instinct in your body screamed.

The figure moved, fast.

A gloved hand shot toward you. You stumbled backward on pure instinct, your shoulder striking the wall as a strangled gasp caught in your throat before it could become a scream.

Then, another black-clad figure appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It caught the first one by the shoulder and shoved him sideways with surprising force.

Not enough to knock him over, but just enough to stop him.

The two stood there for the briefest second. The taller one turned his masked face toward the other and made one sharp, impatient motion with his hand.

Not at you, but past you, toward the end of the hallway. Toward Madison's room.

The second figure hesitated, and the first one pointed again, harder this time. Even through the costume, there was something unmistakably authoritative in the gesture.

The shorter figure looked back at you one last time before reluctantly turning away.

Without a word, he disappeared down the hall.

The taller figure lingered just long enough for his mask to turn toward you. You couldn't see his face. Couldn't see his eyes.

But for one impossible second, you had the overwhelming sensation that he was studying you.

Then he reached back and quietly pushed your bedroom door farther open behind you, almost expectantly. Your legs moved before your mind did, and you stumbled backward into your room.

The second your heel crossed the threshold, the masked figure swung the door shut behind them, leaving the two of you alone in your bedroom. 

The room suddenly felt impossibly small, illuminated only by the pale wash of moonlight slipping through the curtains.

Your pulse hammered so violently in your ears that it almost drowned out everything else, but not quite.

Downstairs, something crashed. A scream, another one, then running, then silence.

You stared at the figure standing only a few feet away from you, every instinct screaming at you to run, to fight, to do something, but your feet wouldn't cooperate.

The black robe barely moved as they shifted their weight. The knife in their hand remained pointed toward the floor.

Not raised, not threatening, but just... there.

You swallowed hard. "What... what do you want?"

The white mask stared back at you without expression. When the voice finally came, it wasn't a voice at all.

It crackled through an electronic distortion, flattened into something mechanical and impossible to place, every trace of age or identity stripped away.

"I'm sorry."

The words were so unexpected that they almost didn't register.

You blinked. "...What?"

Another scream echoed somewhere else in the house, farther away this time. The figure didn't so much as flinch.

"I'm sorry," the altered voice repeated quietly. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

Your hand found the edge of your desk behind you. "What are you talking about?"

Then the mask tilted ever so slightly. "You're the last one."

Your blood ran cold. "No..."

"You are."

"No."

"I'm sorry."

You shook your head before you even realized you were doing it. "No, they're all here. They're upstairs. They're—"

"They're gone."

The electronic filter couldn't hide the strange heaviness behind the words.

There was no laughter. No theatrical gloating. No excitement. Just something that sounded dangerously close to regret.

You stared at him, unable to breathe. "No..."

The figure remained perfectly still. "I didn't want you to find out this way."

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "...Who are you?"

Silence. The only answer was another distant bang somewhere in the house, followed by complete stillness.

Your eyes filled before you could stop them.

"Please."

The masked figure lowered their head for just a second. "I can't."

"You know me."

Another silence. Then, softly, "Yeah."

The admission hit harder than any threat could have.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. "...Do I know you?"

The mask didn't move. The voice changer crackled faintly before the reply came.

"You do."

Every instinct begged you to ask another question. To demand a name. To make them pull the mask off. Instead, all that came out was a trembling—

"...Why me?"

The figure looked at you for what felt like an eternity. When they finally spoke, the words were almost gentle. "Because you were never supposed to be part of this."

The apology hung in the room between you. Outside, somewhere beyond your bedroom walls, the old house sat in perfect silence.

He stood perfectly still. The knife remained pointed toward the floor, hanging loosely from his gloved hand, as if he'd forgotten it was even there.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "...You keep saying you're sorry."

The mask tilted. "I am."

"Then why are you here?"

The distorted speaker crackled softly before he answered. "I don't know."

It wasn't the response you expected. "I thought I did."

Another pause.

"I had a plan."

He gave a quiet, humorless laugh that sounded even stranger through the electronic filter.

"A really good one."

Your fingers were still gripping the edge of your desk so tightly they hurt. "What plan?"

"You weren't supposed to matter."

The words were matter-of-fact, almost clinical.

"You were supposed to be..." He searched for the word. "Adjacent."

The mask turned toward your bookshelf. "Pretty girl."

Toward your desk. "Good grades."

Toward the discarded sorority sweatshirt hanging over your chair. "Legacy."

"I figured I'd have you all figured out in a week."

You couldn't bring yourself to respond. Instead, he continued talking almost to himself.

"But then you were kind. You let me walk away without paying."

Your stomach sank. Wait…

"You looked at me like there wasn't something wrong with me."

The voice changer hid his real voice, but not the strange sincerity underneath it.

"You laughed at my jokes."

"You remembered my order."

It can’t be…

"You started setting aside the blueberry muffins before I even asked."

Realization hit you like a freight train. 

Your mouth went dry. "I was just being nice."

"I know." Another quiet laugh. "That was the problem."

He took one slow step across the room. Not toward you, just... wandering.

Looking at your shelves, your records, the dog-eared paperbacks stacked on your dresser.

"I kept waiting."

"For what?"

"For you to disappoint me."

His head tilted slightly. "You never did."

Your pulse hammered painfully against your ribs.

"So then I started wondering if maybe I was wrong."

"About what?"

"About people."

The silence that followed felt heavier than anything he'd said so far.

"When Madison humiliated Gareth..." He stopped. "...you told her not to."

You stared. "...How do you know that?"

Another tiny crackle from the speaker. "I know lots of things."

"You sat in the corner pretending to read while everybody laughed."

"You left early."

"You looked guilty."

"You always look down when you're upset."

Your breathing became noticeably shallower.

He wasn't speaking like someone who'd watched you once; he was speaking like someone who'd watched you a hundred times. A thousand.

"You don't understand," he continued quietly. "I had everything figured out."

"The people who thought they could hurt whoever they wanted."

"The people who laughed."

"The people who'd never had anyone tell them no."

"They made sense."

"You..." Another soft laugh. "...you didn't."

You could hear your own heartbeat.

"So I started paying attention."

"You read in the park on Tuesdays."

"You always buy the same black pens because you hate blue ink."

"You leave the ends of your sandwiches."

"You hum when you mop the café floors."

You felt physically ill. He wasn't bragging; that was somehow the most terrifying part. He sounded fond, as if he were reminiscing.

"I kept telling myself I'd stop."

"I didn't."

"I kept telling myself you weren't real."

"I'd go home and think, she's pretending."

"Nobody's actually like that."

He looked directly at you. "And then you were."

Your eyes stung. "Please stop."

He ignored the plea. "I thought it would make this easier."

"This?"

"Killing you." The words landed with horrifying simplicity.

"I told myself if I watched long enough I'd find something."

"Something fake."

"Something ugly."

"Something selfish."

Another pause.

"I couldn't."

He lowered his head ever so slightly. "You were supposed to be easy."

His grip tightened almost imperceptibly around the knife at his side. "You were supposed to fit with the rest."

"You were supposed to laugh with them."

"You were supposed to become one of them."

"You weren't."

The electronic distortion crackled again. "And now you're making this so much harder than it was supposed to be."

You couldn't stop the tears now. "I don’t even know you that well.”

"No."

"But I know you." His head lifted again. "And that's the really unfair part."

Then, so quietly you almost didn't hear it, "I think if we'd met differently..."

The sentence never finished. Instead, he looked away, almost angry with himself for saying it at all.

When he spoke again, the softness was gone; only something fractured remained.

"I spent weeks trying to convince myself obsession isn't the same thing as caring." The mask turned back toward you. "I still don't know if I believe that."

He stood there in the moonlight, impossibly still. The voice changer hid his identity. The mask hid his face. But you knew who it was, mask on or not. Eddie. 

His name echoed in your mind, heavy and final, twisting something deep in your gut. You should have screamed. You should have lunged for the window, the phone, anything.

Instead, your body stayed rooted, trembling against the desk as the Ghostface figure, Eddie, some broken part of you already whispered—stood bathed in the thin moonlight slicing through your curtains.

He took another slow step.

The knife still dangled from his gloved fingers like an afterthought, but his head tilted with that unnerving curiosity, like he was memorizing the way your chest heaved with every shallow breath.

"You keep saying you're sorry," you whispered again, voice cracking.

"I am." The distortion made it sound almost gentle. "But I can't stop now. Not when you're looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you see me." He was closer now.

Close enough that the black fabric of his robe brushed your bare knee where your sleep shorts had ridden up. "Like maybe you could want this too. Even if you shouldn't."

Your pulse roared in your ears. Fear coiled tight in your stomach, but underneath it—god, underneath it—something hotter flickered.

The way he'd watched you. The way he knew you. The confession of weeks, months, of him orbiting your life like a shadow you never noticed.

It should have repulsed you. It did. But it also made your skin prickle, your thighs press together without thinking.

"I don't—" The lie died on your tongue as his free hand rose, gloved fingers ghosting along your jaw.

Not gripping, not yet. Just tracing, reverent, like you were something sacred he was about to defile.

"You do," he murmured, echoing his earlier words. The knife lifted slowly, the flat of the blade pressing cool against the side of your neck. Not cutting. Just resting there, a promise.

Your breath hitched sharply. 

"I can see it. That little shake in your voice. The way your nipples are hard under that shirt even though you're scared shitless."

A low, distorted chuckle. "Pretty girl... always so fucking kind. Always pretending you don't feel it."

He stepped fully into your space, the mask inches from your face.

You could smell him—faint leather, weed, that metallic tang of whatever madness drove him. His body heat bled through the robe, solid and real against you.

"Tell me to leave," he said suddenly, voice dropping. The knife traced lower, down your collarbone, catching on the thin strap of your tank top. "Say it. Say 'get out,' and I'll try. I'll really fucking try."

Your lips parted, but no sound came. His gloved thumb brushed your bottom lip, pressing just enough to part them further.

"That's what I thought." The knife slipped under the strap and flicked; sharp, precise. The fabric gave way with a whisper. 

Cool air hit your skin as one breast spilled free. He groaned, the sound raw even through the mask. "Fuck... look at you."

You gasped as his hand cupped you roughly, thumb circling your nipple in a way that made your back arch despite yourself. Terror and heat twisted together, impossible to separate. "Please..."

"Please what?" He leaned in, the mask's nose brushing your cheek. The knife dragged lightly down your sternum, not breaking skin, just teasing the panic that made you clench. 

"Please stop? Or please keep going? Be honest, sweetheart. I've watched you long enough to know when you're lying."

His other hand slid down your body, shoving between your thighs without warning. Two thick fingers pressed against the damp seam of your shorts, rubbing slow and firm.

You whimpered, hips jerking forward involuntarily. Shame burned your face even as slick heat flooded you.

"See?" That fractured laugh again. "You're soaking for the monster who came to kill you. My sweet, perfect girl... always surprising me."

He pushed you back onto the desk with sudden force, scattering papers and pens. The knife clattered beside you as he used both hands to yank your shorts down your legs, leaving you bare from the waist down. 

You tried to close your thighs; he forced them open wider, dropping to his knees between them like a man at prayer.

The mask stayed on (of course it did). But you felt his breath hot through the fabric as he leaned in, inhaling you like a drug. It lifted slightly, not enough to see his face, but enough to assist him.

"Been dreaming about this," he rasped. His tongue, warm, real, and eager, dragged up your slit in one long, filthy stroke.

You cried out, fingers scrambling for purchase on the desk. He didn't tease; he devoured. Licking and sucking at your clit with desperate hunger, his now un-gloved hands pinning your thighs apart as you squirmed and moaned.

Every flick of his tongue pulled another broken sound from you. Fear made everything sharper—the edge of the knife still within reach, the threat of who he was—but the pleasure was drowning it, wave after wave as he ate you like a man starved. Like he'd been waiting lifetimes for the taste of you.

"That's it," he growled against your cunt, voice rough and filthy. "Ride my face, baby. Use me. I killed for less. I'd die for this."

Your hands tangled in the hood of his robe, pulling him closer despite everything. Your hips rolled, chasing the building pressure.

He moaned into you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. One finger pushed inside you, then two, curling just right while his mouth worked your clit without mercy.

You came hard, thighs shaking around his masked head, a sob tearing from your throat as pleasure crashed through the terror. He didn't stop. He licked you through it, gentler now, almost worshipful, until you were twitching and oversensitive.

When he finally rose, he towered over you, unzipping the robe with one hand while the other picked up the knife again. His cock sprang free, heavy, flushed, already leaking.

He fisted himself slowly, stroking as he looked down at you spread out and ruined on your desk.

"Still scared?" he asked, almost tenderly.

The tip of the knife traced your inner thigh, leaving faint red lines that didn't quite break skin.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks even as your pussy fluttered around nothing, aching for more.

"Good." He stepped between your legs, rubbing his cock through your folds. "Because I'm not done with you. Not even close."

He pushed in with one slow, relentless thrust, stretching you open around his thickness. The mask hovered above you as he bottomed out, a broken groan leaving his mouth.

"Fuck... so tight. So fucking good." He started moving, deep and punishing, one hand braced beside your head with the knife still clutched tight. "You're mine now. Say it."

You gasped with every thrust, the desk creaking beneath you. "I’m yours—"

"Louder." His hips snapped harder, dragging perfectly inside you. "Tell the man who you’re scared of that you're dripping for his cock anyway."

"I'm yours," you moaned louder, legs wrapping around his waist despite the fear still clawing at your chest.

The blade pressed to your throat again as he fucked you harder, the danger and the pleasure twisting into something addictive, something insane.

He laughed wild and unhinged, something almost Eddie, and leaned down until the mask was pressed to your ear.

"Good girl. Now cum on my cock while I decide if I'm still gonna kill you after... or if I'm keeping you forever."

The choice, you realized through the haze of overwhelming sensation, had never really been yours to begin with.

And some shattered part of you didn't want it to be.

....part 2? or am i crazy? ._.

anywayssss, hope you all enjoyed pookies!

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