The stalking starts subtly enough that, at first, you almost convince yourself it’s harmless. Weird, definitely. Invasive, absolutely. But not dangerous.

It begins with small things around your apartment. Your flickering kitchen light suddenly working again after weeks of putting off calling maintenance. The loose handle on your bathroom sink somehow tightened overnight.

Groceries appearing outside your door after long shifts, always things you actually eat. Fresh fruit. Soup. Coffee. The expensive granola bars you only buy when you’re stressed.

No note at first.

Just the bags.

You’d asked your landlord if he’d entered your apartment while you were gone. He looked confused enough that you believed him immediately.

Then the messages begin. Unknown numbers. Blank emails. Burner accounts that disappear hours later.

You looked tired today.

I hope you sleep better tonight.

You should really remember to lock your front door properly.

That one nearly makes you sick. Because you had forgotten to lock it the night before.

After that, the messages start feeling less comforting and more suffocating. Every compliment comes wrapped in the awareness that someone is watching you close enough to notice things nobody should.

Blue looks good on you.

You smiled more today.

You stop sleeping properly after that. Wilson notices immediately. Of course he does.

James Wilson has always been attentive in a way that feels soft instead of invasive. He remembers things about people because he genuinely cares about them, and normally that makes him comforting to be around.

Lately, though, every act of kindness feels sharpened by paranoia. He starts checking in more often after you tell him about the messages. Bringing coffee during shifts. Walking you to your car at night. Sitting with you in your apartment when the silence starts making your skin crawl.

“You’re not overreacting,”

He tells you gently one night while you reread the newest message for the hundredth time.

“Anyone would be freaked out.”

You nod weakly, exhausted. Wilson’s expression softens further.

“You’ve barely eaten, haven’t you?”

You blink.

“You always forget to eat when you’re stressed.”

The answer comes easily. Naturally. And maybe a month ago it would’ve comforted you completely. Now it just leaves something uneasy twisting in your stomach.

Because Wilson always knows things lately.

When you run out of groceries before you mention it. When your migraines are getting worse. When you skipped lunch. He notices details so quickly it’s starting to feel impossible.

You try not to think too hard about it.

Try not to connect it to the stalker who somehow also knows exactly what groceries you like.

Tonight’s shift is brutal enough that by the time you finally get home, you feel numb with exhaustion. Your shoulders ache, your head hurts, and all you want is to shower and collapse into bed for twelve hours.

You’re halfway down the apartment hallway when you freeze.

Someone is standing outside your door.

Your stomach drops violently.

For one horrible second your brain refuses to process anything except danger. The messages. The groceries. The constant feeling of being watched.

Then the person turns slightly.

Wilson.

Relief crashes through you so hard it almost hurts.

He’s holding two grocery bags in one hand while digging through his coat pocket with the other, expression focused downward until he notices you standing there. Immediately, his face softens.

“Oh, hey.”

His voice is gentle, as if he’s trying not to stress you out. You stare at him, pulse still hammering too hard.

“James?”

“You look exhausted,”

He murmurs before anything else, eyes scanning your face carefully.

“Long shift?”

Something about the familiarity of the question steadies you slightly. Then your gaze drops toward the grocery bags. Your usual coffee creamer, the exact soup brand you buy after bad days, your favorite tea, the expensive strawberries you only let yourself buy occasionally.

Your chest tightens. Wilson notices where you’re looking and smiles faintly.

“You said you hadn’t gone shopping in a while.”

You swallow hard.

“I said that like... four days ago.”

“You’ve been busy.”

Again, the answer comes too easily. Your eyes flick toward your apartment door. Wilson follows your gaze automatically before holding up a keyring slightly.

“I was going to put them inside for you.”

Your blood runs cold, and the silence stretches heavily between you. Wilson’s expression shifts the second he notices yours.

“What?”

He asks softly. You stare at the keys in his hand.

“...how did you get those?”

A pause. Small, brief. But long enough. Then Wilson smiles gently again, like this is perfectly normal.

“You gave me a copy a while ago, remember?”