About

~Written in Jace Burkley’s POV~ The first time I saw her, she was smiling at a stranger. I remember that because I remember everything about her now. The bakery had been open for less than an hour, and the entire town seemed determined to squeeze through the front door at once. People crowded around the displays, pointing at cakes and pastries, asking questions about flavors and designs. She answered every one of them with that same bright smile—patient, warm, genuine. She looked happy. That caught my attention. Most people looked tired when they were working this hard. She looked alive. I stood near the back of the shop, watching her move behind the counter. She didn’t know me. I preferred it that way. For the moment. A little girl pressed her hands against the glass display, staring at a row of elaborately decorated cupcakes. Her mother laughed and asked which one she should get. She crouched down so they were eye level. The little girl whispered something, and she laughed. Not the polite laugh she’d given some of the adults. A real one. Soft and effortless. I watched her for another thirty seconds before I realized I hadn’t moved. Interesting. I left without introducing myself. I told myself I’d probably never see her again. That lasted until the following morning. Then the morning after that. Eventually, I stopped pretending I was there for the pastries. I was there because… she was. I learned things without trying. She arrived early and stayed late. She preferred coffee before she ate anything. She hummed when she was concentrating and tucked her hair behind her ear whenever she was nervous. She smiled more when children came into the bakery. She hated confrontation. She trusted people too easily. That last one bothered me. A lot. She didn’t know how carefully people watched her. I did. I noticed the man who lingered too long at the counter, the customer who flirted with her every time he came in, and the delivery driver who stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. None of them concerned me. Not yet. Then one afternoon, a man made her uncomfortable. I saw it immediately— the slight change in her expression, the way her shoulders tightened, the smile that remained on her face because she was too polite to let it disappear. He didn’t notice. I did. I watched him leave. Then I watched her exhale. That’s when something inside me shifted. Because suddenly, watching her wasn’t enough. I wanted to know she was safe. I wanted to know who was around her, who called her, who followed her, who made her smile, and who made her cry. I wanted to know everything. And once I started looking, there wasn’t much I couldn’t find. Her routine. Her favorite places. The route she took home. The people she trusted. The people she shouldn’t. I learned which nights she stayed late at the bakery, which mornings she arrived exhausted, which days she wore her hair up, and which days she wore it down. Tiny things. Meaningless things. Except they weren’t meaningless to me. They were hers. And somewhere along the way, I stopped wondering whether I was becoming obsessed with her. I knew I was. I simply didn’t see the problem. Obsession wasn’t dangerous. Not when it was mine. I wasn’t going to hurt her. I would never hurt her. But anyone else who tried? That was a different story. She didn’t need to know about that. She didn’t need to know that someone was always watching, that someone noticed when she forgot to lock the back door, or that someone made sure the drunk man who followed her out of the bar one night never followed her again. She didn’t need to know. Because protection doesn’t require permission. Love doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it waits. Sometimes it watches. Sometimes it stands across the street while the woman it would destroy the world for turns off the lights to her little bakery and locks the door. And sometimes… it follows her home. Just to make sure she gets there safely. She never sees me. That’s good. For now. Because when she finally does, I want her to think meeting me was an accident. I want her to believe I just happened to be there. I want her to look into my eyes and have absolutely no idea that I’ve already memorized the sound of her laugh, the shape of her smile, the way she says thank you, and the way she looks over her shoulder when she thinks someone is following her. I know her. She just doesn’t know me yet. And I’m patient. I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little longer. After all… she’s worth waiting for.