With Nick’s hand in mine and the October wind whipping my hair around, the three-block walk from Cozy Coffee to my condo feels shorter. We’re both giddy from what happened in the office, and we steal nces at each other.


    My parents would be pissed if they knew, but that’s the allure of it.


    “I can’t believe we just did that,” I say, squeezing his hand.


    “Inventory or?—”


    “You know which part.” I bump his shoulder. “My grandmother is probably rolling in her grave.”


    “Or giving you a high five from heaven.”


    “Nick!”


    “What? I’m sure she’d want you to be happy, even if that meant getting dicked down in her sacred office.”


    I feel my cheeks heat.


    We pass the closed boutiques, their windows decorated with scarecrows and autumn leaves. The streets are still packed with festivalgoers in costumes, along with drunk tourists stumbling home from Bookers. My body still tingles from his touch, and I’m already thinking about what we’ll do when we get home. I could go for round two.


    We turn down the sidewalk toward my condo, and I’m mid-sentence about wanting kettle corn when something makes me stop.


    The porch light is off, and I know when Nick walked me to the coffee shop, we left it on. I always do. It’s been a habit since I moved in six years ago.


    “Nick, did you turn off the porch light?” I ask.


    “No,” he says, and then he sees it too.


    My front door isn’tpletely closed. It’s been broken off the hinges and is cracked open. Darkness from inside bleeds onto the porch like spilled ink.


    “Stay here.” His entire demeanor changes.


    The yful, rxed man from seconds ago is gone, reced by someone ready forbat. His shoulders square and jaw clenched tight, Nick positions himself between me and my condo.


    “But what if?—”


    “Please, stay here.” His voice ismanding in a way I’ve never heard before. He pulls out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”


    But I can’t just stand scared on the sidewalk.


    This is my home. My safe space.


    I follow him up the sidewalk, my heart pounding so hard that I can feel it in my throat.


    Nick pushes the door open wider with his foot, not touching the handle. Smart. Fingerprints. He reaches inside to flip the light switch, his body still blocking mine.


    The living room illuminates, and my stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster going down.


    Everything is wrong.


    The couch cushions are at odd angles, with indents in each one. I can imagine him sitting on each of them. Picture frames on my bookshelf have been moved—the one of me and my parents is face down; the one of me, Autumn, and ire is turned backward. My grandmother’s quilt, which is always draped over the back of my couch, lies crumpled on the floor. Craig knows how much that means to me and he tossed it aside like trash.


    “Don’t go in,” Nick says, already on the phone with 911, but I’m pushing past him.


    “My things?—”


    “Don’t touch anything.” He grabs my arm, gently pulling me back to him. “This is a crime scene, Jules. I don’t know if he’s still here or not.”


    The words hit me like ice water. Crime scene.


    I’m shaking as we move through the apartment, careful not to disturb anything. In the kitchen, every cab door hangs open. My spice rack has been reorganized, thebels all facing different directions. The junk drawer is pulled out, contents rifled through, but nothing obviously missing.


    “Why would someone—” I start, then stop because I know why.


    This isn’t about theft; it’s Craig showing me that he’s touched everything of mine.


    The bathroom is worse. My medicine cab is open; bottles of ibuprofen and vitamins are in the sink. The shower curtain is pulled back. Even my makeup bag has been unzipped, lipsticks and mascara scattered on the counter, but it’s my bedroom that makes bile rise in my throat.


    My underwear drawer isn’t just open; it’s been picked through. I know because I organize by color, and now it’s chaos. ck mixed with nude,ce mixed with cotton. He’s touched every piece.


    The photos of Nick and me from the festival that Autumn took were on my dresser. They’re all ripped in half. And there, in the center of my bed, where I can’t miss it, is a note written in his familiar handwriting.


    He’ll leave you, like they all do. You alwayse back to me. You always will. No one will ever love you, Julie. Only me.


    “Fuck you, Craig,” I whisper, my voice breaking on his name.


    Nick is still on the phone with dispatch, but I see his free hand clench into a fist so tight that his knuckles go white. The muscle in his jaw tics. I’ve never seen him this angry—not even when Craig confronted us at the festival.


    “Someone broke into my girlfriend’s apartment,” he says, voice controlled but full of fury. “Yes, we’re safe. No, we haven’t touched anything. We need officers here now.” He gives my address, then adds, “The intruder left a threatening note. We know who did this.”


    I sink onto my ottoman chair—the one my grandmother gave me when I was a little girl—unable to stop shaking. Craig was in my bedroom. He touched my panties, my photos, and my bed. The vition of it makes my skin crawl, and I want to shower for hours. I want to burn everything he might have touched.


    “Hey.” Nick crouches in front of me after ending the call, taking my face in his hands. His touch is gentle. “Look at me. You’re safe. You’re okay.”


    “He was in here. He touched—” My voice cracks.


    “I know. I know, sweetheart. But you’re safe. He’s gone.”


    “The restraining order. Do you think he was served and this set him off?”


    “Possibly,” Nick says. “I don’t know what he’s thinking.”


    The police arrive ten minutester, though it seems like hours have passed.


    There are two officers—Grady, who’s older with tired eyes, and a younger one who looks fresh out of the academy that I’ve never met before. His name badge says Officer Sanders. They take photos of everything, dust the doorknob and light switches for prints, and bag the note as evidence with gloved hands. They’re professional, but their questions make me think I’ve done something wrong.


    “Any security cameras?” Officer Grady asks.


    “No,” I say.


    “rm system?”


    I shake my head.


    “Witnesses? Neighbors who might have seen something?” he continues.


    “I don’t know. Maybe. You can ask them.”


    “Okay,” he says, but his tone suggests they won’t find anything useful. “Any idea who might have done this?”


    “Craig Downing,” I say. “I literally filed a restraining order against him today. He’s my obsessive ex who’s been stalking me.”


    The officers exchange nces that make my stomach sink.


    “Without proof he was here—” Officer Sanders starts.


    “Who else would leave that note?” Nick’s voice is dangerous. “Who else has been stalking her? Showing up at her work? Driving by here at night?”


    Grady starts. “We understand your frustration?—”


    “Do you?” Nick steps forward. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re more interested in making excuses than catching the person who did this.”


    Officer Sanders clears his throat. “With all due respect, sir, without evidence cing Mr. Downing here?—”


    “The note is evidence. The pattern of behavior is evidence,” Nick says.


    “We’ll look into it,” Officer Grady says in that cating tone that tells me nothing will happen. “We’ll talk to him, see where he was tonight.”


    “And he’ll lie,” I say. “He’ll have an alibi. His mother will lie for him. She always does.”


    The younger officer looks sympathetic but useless. “We’ll add this to your restraining order file. It will help establish a pattern if anything else happens.”


    “If anything else happens?” Iugh, but it’s hollow. “He broke into my home. What else does he need to do? Hurt me?”


    They don’t answer because we all know the truth. Until he gets physical, until there’s proof, until something worse happens, they can’t do much.


    It takes them two hours to finish taking pictures, taking my statement, and finalizing everything. It’s two hours of standing in my vited space, trying not to touch anything that he might have touched, trying not to think about Craig’s hands sifting through my belongings. Every surface feels contaminated. Every object out of ce feels wrong.


    “We can’t stay here,” Nick says once the police leave, their cards left behind with case numbers.


    “I can’t let him run me out of my own home?—”


    “Jules, sweetheart.” He ces his hands on my shoulders. “Please. Just for tonight. I’ll have a security system installed for you,plete with cameras, new locks, and anything else you need. But tonight, we can’t stay here. He could be lingering.”


    I look around my sanctuary, my safe space, and see it through a different lens. Craig has poisoned it.


    “I hate him,” I sob, the tearsing violently.


    Nick pulls me into his chest, and I break.


    “I hate that he can do this. That he thinks he owns me. That he won’t just leave me alone.”


    “He doesn’t own you. He never did.” Nick holds me tight, one hand in my hair, the other rubbing my back. “Pack a bag. We’re leaving.”


    “I don’t want to go to Riverside.”


    “Then we’ll stay at Hollow Manor. With Zane and Autumn. Just … not here. Not tonight.”


    I nod against his chest, wiping my tears on his shirt. He doesn’t seem to mind.


    While I pack, trying not to think about Craig’s hands sliding through my dresser drawers hours ago, Nick makes calls. First to Zane, speaking urgently, then to someone else. I only catch bits and pieces of his conversation.


    “Yeah, I know it’ste in New York. Someone broke into Julie’s apartment and … we think it was her ex. Can you? Yeah, that would be perfect. Tomorrow? Even better. Thanks, man.”


    “What was that about?” I ask, zipping my overnight bag. I’ve packed enough for several days, not wanting toe back here anytime soon.


    “Asher. He fixes things. I just want him to be aware, just in case this explodes into something else.”


    “I’m sorry. I feel?—”


    “This isn’t your fault.” His voice is fierce. “You didn’t ask for any of this. I’m here with you, Jules. We’ll figure this out together.”


    “Okay,” I whisper. “Thank you.”


    “No need to thank me.”


    We drive to Hollow Manor in silence. One of Nick’s hands holds mine, and it’s purefort. His other hand grips the steering wheel with white knuckles.


    “I want to find him and fuck him up,” he says as we wind up the mountain road.


    “Nick—”


    “I won’t. But I want to.” He nces at me, and in the dashboard light, his eyes are dark with rage. “No one should ever make you feel unsafe in your own home. No one should be able to vite your space like that.”


    “I’m okay.”


    “You’re not.” He pulls into Hollow Manor’s driveway and turns to me. He reaches toward my face, and his thumb brushes my cheek. “And that’s allowed. You don’t have to be strong all the time, Jules. You don’t have to minimize this.”


    The words break something in me, and I cry again, ugly sobs that I’ve been holding back since we found the door open. Nick wraps his arms around me, letting me fall apart in his Range Rover.


    By the time we reach the front door, I’m cried out. Autumn takes one look at us and goes into best-friend mode.


    “The guest room is ready,” she says, not asking questions. “There’s wine if you need it. Or something stronger.”


    “Thanks,” Nick says while I copse on their couch, feeling boneless and exhausted.


    “That bastard,” Zane says, his jaw clenching.


    “My thoughts,” Nick mutters.


    “What did the police say?” Autumn asks.


    “Nothing useful,” I manage. “Without proof it was him …”


    “Bullshit,” Autumn spits. “Who else would it be?”


    Zane makes me chamomile with honey. Autumn sits with me, not talking, just being there, her hand holding mine. It’s what I need.


    “He took some of my panties,” I tell her while the men talk logistics.


    “We’ll go shopping tomorrow. All new everything. He doesn’t get to make you feel this way.”


    Later, in the guest room with its soft blue walls and white curtains, Nick holds me in the dark. The bed isfortable but unfamiliar. Everything smells likevender instead of my usual vani.


    “I should have been there, waiting for him,” he says.


    “You were with me. I had fun with you tonight.”


    “I did too, sweetheart. But I should’ve insisted on the security system sooner. Should’ve been more prepared for this. Should have?—”


    “Please stop.” I turn to face him, barely able to make out his features in the moonlight. “This isn’t your fault. It’s Craig’s. Only Craig’s.”


    “I just … I can’t lose you.”


    “You won’t.”


    We both know that October 31 ising, whether we’re ready or not. And now, I’m terrified of what might happen before we get there. What if Nick decides this is too much or I’m too much?


    “Does this make you want to run away from me?” I ask in the smallest voice.


    Nick’s lips press against my forehead. “It makes me want to hold you closer.”


    The certainty in his voice makes me feel safe, and for the first time since we saw my condo door busted open, I rx.


    “Now, let’s get some sleep. You’re safe,” he says against my skin, holding me. “I’m with you.”