Page 75 of Sexting the Boss
Ethan asked for consent. He checked in. He stopped when I told him to. He fed me. He held me. He listened when I asked for space. He didn’t punish me for it.
That’s real.
The internet is noise.
Sabrina is spite in a dress.
Still, my thoughts keep running, and they’re fast now, and they keep circling one question I hate.
What if I’m wrong?
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I don’t open it. I set the phone face down, then flip it back up, then set it down again, because my hands still can’t pick a side.
The doorbell rings.
My lungs freeze halfway through a breath.
No one rings my doorbell. People text. People call. Delivery drivers leave things downstairs. I walk to the door with my phone in my fist and my other hand sliding under my shirt to press two fingers into my own skin, just above my waistband, like a reminder that I’m here.
I check the peephole.
A delivery guy with a pizza box and the dead-eyed patience of a man who has seen every version of human nonsense.
I crack the door. “Can I help you.”
“Delivery,” he says, glancing at his screen. “Lila Bennett.”
“I didn’t order pizza.”
He shrugs with his shoulder, with practiced indifference. “Paid already. Contactless. I just drop it.”
My throat tightens. “Who sent it.”
He looks past me into my apartment already bored. “No clue. Have a good night.”
He holds the box out.
I take it because leaving it in the hallway feels worse, and my fingers catch the heat through the cardboard. I close the door, lock it, then rest my forehead against it for a second, eyes shut.
When I turn around, I see the envelope on top of the box.
White paper. Black marker. My name, then a message.
I see you.
The room tilts in tandem with my sense of safety, and it drops through the floor like it never belonged to me.
My phone buzzes again, and my skin prickles at the thought of looking, so I don’t. I stare at the note until my eyes sting.
This isn’t a prank.
This isn’t a weird coincidence.
This is him.
