Page 6

Probably.

He distracted me and pulled me out of my head, the way he always does. If I hadn’t called, I’d probably be up all night letting worst-case scenarios eat me alive.

I should’ve stayed over like I usually do. Curled up on the couch with him, half-watching some awful movie, falling asleep to the sound of his breathing like I’ve done a hundred times until he tells me to get in bed. But tonight felt weird in a way I couldn’t shake, like something underneath the surface had shifted, and I’m the only one who felt it.

Ever since I saw that guy at the bar sitting there, watching me, I’ve felt off. I didn’t have the words to explain the creeped out and borderline suspicious feeling to Logan yet, mostly because I’m pretty sure there isn’t any logic behind it. There was justsomethingabout the way the guy looked at me. His gaze was heavy, disturbing, and he wasn’t trying to be subtle about it either, which somehow made it even worse.I’m sure I’ll never see him again, but it hasn’t sat right with me all night.

Then, when I got home, I swore I heard something outside my window that sounded a lot like breaking branches. When I first heard the noise, I peeked through my blinds and half expected to see the guy from the bar standing there. Well, that or something straight out of a bad horror movie with a masked man in the front yard, or a figure under the streetlights.

But there was nothing.

Realistically, it was probably just my neighbor’s kid sneaking out again and diving into my bushes to avoid getting caught. That would make the most sense, especially since he’s done it before.

At this point, I can’t tell if I’m paranoid because tonight’s been so fucking strange, or if something is actually wrong, and I hate that I can’t tell the difference. Paranoia isn’t my style. If anything, I’m usually the opposite—carefree and laid-back to a fault—which is why tonight’s rattling me so much.

No wonder Logan was two seconds from driving over here. I was acting weird at the bar, basically blew him off when we usually spend every Friday night together, and then called him late at night because I heard a noise outside my window. I’ve probably totally freaked him out, and I’m definitely gonna need to make that up to him.

I’m sure it’s probably stress from work and deadlines building up that’s exacerbating everything. That’s gotta be it. I just need to shut my brain off and get some sleep so I can make some real progress recording tomorrow. Then I’ll feel better. All of today’s paranoia will evaporate, and I’ll be able to laugh at how dramatic my reaction to this whole thing was.

At some point,I must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I know, my alarm is blaring in my ear and I really hate that fucking sound.

I turn off the alarm and check my notifications, spotting a text from Logan.

Logan:

The rest of the night go okay?

Ryder:

Yeah, just woke up. Feel better already.

I set my phone down and force myself to get out of bed. If I’d stayed at Logan’s, I’m sure the coffee would already be ready and waiting for me.

I should’ve just stayed there last night. It would’ve made way more sense than coming home to stew in my thoughts.

Despite wishing Logan were handing me a cup of coffee, I accept my fate as I pour water into the coffee maker, scoop in the grounds, and flip the switch. While I wait, I grab a mug from the cabinet that says,‘No coffee. No talkie.’It was a gift from Logan, and it’s annoyingly spot-on. I’m sure he laughed to himself when he picked it out, though I’ve never had a problem talking to him first thing in the morning. Just everyone else.

Mugs with silly sayings on them became our thing in our senior year of college. It started during a white elephant gift exchange one Christmas, when I ended up with a hideous mug that read,‘I cannot brain today. It has the dumb.’Seriously, who comes up with this stuff? But Logan thought it was hilarious, and from that moment on, he started buying cheesy mugs every time he saw one. Now both our houses are full of them, and it’s the one thing he doesn’t mind not matching.

Once the coffee’s done, I pour myself a cup and head to my recording booth—a small room I built off the corner of the living room. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s big enough to comfortably fit a desk, a chair, and all my equipment. Plus, it’s soundproofed, windowless, and way better than trying to record in a tiny closet like I used to. I told myself I’d outgrown spending all day in the closet.

The manuscript I’m narrating is open to where I left off last night, and I already know I need to be in the right headspace to kick things off with a sex scene first thing in the morning. If I’m going to get this done—and do it right—I need to be fully dialed in, layering in the right inflection, pacing, and tone. Narration isn’t just reading out loud. Not if you want it to feel authentic.

I exhale through my nose and roll my shoulders to loosen up, mentally walking through the scene and thinking through the shifts in cadence, the emotional beats, and where the tension needs to land. With one last breath, I shake out my arms, adjust the mic, clear my throat, and drop into character.

“You’re shaking for me, baby.”

I keep my voice low and pause to let the tension stretch before shifting my tone slightly for the other character.

“I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted you for so long.”

I smirk, even though no one can see it. I always treat these scenes like I’m in them—well, within reason. I’m not gonna whip my dick out or anything, but the feeling has to be real.

“Mmm,”I moan into the mic, closing my eyes and letting myself really feel it?—

BANG.

A loud noise cuts through my headphones, shattering the moment and yanking me straight out of the scene.