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She digs through the drawer and finds a single pill in a small baggie, holding it up before moving on to search the rest of the house. I follow behind her, pulling stashes out of random places I’d forgotten about and adding them to her growing collection.

“Ten bags?” she asks when we’re done, staring at the pile of pills on the kitchen counter. “This is insane. I need to get rid of these. I’m going to take them and get rid of them for you.”

“I’ll come with you,” I say automatically.

“You,” she points at me, “are not coming with me.”

Shit. The finality in her voice makes my chest tight with panic. I stare at her, not wanting her to leave the house, not wanting to be alone with the silence and my thoughts.

She turns on her heel and walks to her bedroom. When she emerges, she’s fully dressed and ready to leave, the pills clutched in a plastic bag like toxic waste.

“Just flush them down the toilet,” I suggest.

She shakes her head. “I’m taking them out of here, Slater.” She walks over and kisses me on the lips, soft and quick, and it feels like a lifeline. “I’ll be back.”

I watch from the front window as she drives away, leaving me alone in a house that suddenly feels too big and too quiet. Without her energy filling the space, I don’t know what to do with myself.

I wander aimlessly for a few minutes before finding myself in her bedroom—the one she’s only slept in once since moving in.

The room still smells like her vanilla body wash and something floral from her shampoo.

I sit on the bed that’s perfectly made, running my hands over the comforter she barely used.

My eyes land on her dresser, and a dark thought creeps into my mind. Did she hide some of my pills? Is she keeping some just in case?

I pull open the top drawer, feeling like a complete asshole but unable to stop myself. Nothing but neatly underwear and bras. The second drawer holds t-shirts and tank tops. No pills anywhere.

Her laptop sits on top of the dresser, closed but not locked. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But my finger hovers over the trackpad anyway, and before I can talk myself out of it, the screen lights up.

Her messages are open, and I can see a conversation thread with someone named Magnolia. This must be the best friend she mentioned. I scroll through their recent texts, feeling guilty but unable to look away.

Magnolia: How’s the hot hockey player?

Sage: Still hot. Still complicated.

Magnolia: Good complicated or bad complicated?

Sage: Both? The sex is incredible. Like, I didn’t know my body could do those things.

Magnolia: TMI but also tell me everything

Sage: He’s so intense. Brooding in this way that should be annoying but just makes me want to fix him.

Magnolia: Famous last words, babe

Sage: I know, I know. But it’s unreal.

Magnolia: You got it bad, babe.

Reading her words about me, about us, makes something warm spread through my chest. She talks about me like I matter, like what we have is real and worth fighting for. Now I know I have nothing to worry about.

But then I see another conversation thread that makes my blood turn to ice.

The contact’s name is just “FUCK YOU” in all caps, and there are dozens of unread messages. When I click on it, the first thing I see are images—photos of Sage that make my vision go red around the edges.

She’s tied up, blindfolded, in positions that should only be for me. One dick up her pussy and another at her mouth. But these aren’t intimate photos—they’re weapons. Degrading images being used to threaten her.

I scroll up through the messages, my jaw clenching tighter with each line:

FUCK YOU: Miss me yet, slut?

FUCK YOU: Saw you actually moved to a new city. Running away won’t change what you are.

FUCK YOU: Found your new address. Nice place. Shame if something happened to it.

FUCK YOU: You think you can just disappear? Start over? I own you, Sage. I’ll always own you.

FUCK YOU: You’re nothing without me. Worthless. No one else will ever want a dirty whore like you.

The messages go on and on, a relentless stream of psychological warfare meant to break her down. No wonder she doesn’t trust easily. No wonder she moved across the country. This sick fuck has been stalking her, threatening her, using their photos together as ammunition.

I jot down the phone number in my phone, my hands shaking with rage. Then I keep reading, looking for any information about who this piece of shit is and where I can find him.

FUCK YOU: Text me back you fucking bitch.

FUCK YOU: You keep pretending that you didn’t like it, but I know you fucking loved it.

I’m pacing now, adrenaline coursing through my veins. How long has this been going on? Why didn’t she tell me? And what the fuck am I going to do about it?

My mind races with everything I’m going to do this fucking asshole. Tyler. I am going to track this asshole down, show him what happens when you threaten Sage. I could hire someone to make his life as miserable as he’s made hers. I could—

The front door opens, and I hear her footsteps in the hallway. I quickly close the laptop, but the rage is still burning hot in my chest, the images of those photos seared into my brain.

“Slater?” she calls out.

I walk out of her room, trying to school my expression into something resembling normal. But when she sees my face, she immediately knows something’s wrong.

“What?” she asks, her eyes searching mine.

How do I tell her I invaded her privacy? How do I explain that I’ve seen the messages, the photos, the evidence of what her ex has been doing to her?

“We need to talk,” I say, my voice on the edge of rage.

Her face goes pale, and I realize she thinks this is about the pills, about my addiction. She has no idea I’ve just discovered the real reason she’s been running.