Just Keep Busy

ALIE

The Uber smells faintly of pine air freshener and wet wool. The heater blasts against my skin, thawing me out, but I can't shake the chill crawling under my skin.

I stare out the rain-smeared window, forcing myself not to look back. I don't want to see him still standing there. I don't want to know.

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Rough night?" he asks, his voice kind enough but edged with the weary disinterest of someone who's seen everything.

I let out a laugh that's more like a sigh. "You could say that."

My phone buzzes in my lap. I almost don't look, but habit wins. It's a notification. I frown. Low storage warning.

Weird. I cleared space just last week.

Another buzz. Another notification. Unknown Device Connected.

The blood drains from my face. My thumb shakes as I tap the screen, but the message vanishes, replaced by my home screen like nothing happened.

My reflection stares back at me from the dark glass. Wet hair plastered to my cheeks, mascara smudged like bruises. Pathetic.

I close my eyes and try to breathe. It's fine, Alie. You're tired. You're overthinking. You're safe now.

But deep down, I know better.

I can still feel him.

By the time the Uber pulls up outside my apartment, the rain has slowed to a steady drizzle, but the night still feels heavy, oppressive. The kind of night where shadows linger too long, like they're listening.

"Here you go," the driver says.

"Thanks." My voice comes out small. I clutch my purse tighter and hurry out, heels splashing in puddles as I dash up the short walk to my building. The security light above the door flickers once, then steadies. For a moment, I'm absurdly grateful for something so simple.

Inside, the lobby smells faintly of bleach, the tile still damp from a recent mop. I force my shoulders to relax. No more alleys. No more strangers. Just me and my crappy little apartment upstairs.

I climb the narrow staircase, keys clenched in my fist like weapons. By the time I reach my door, my pulse has eased enough to feel foolish. I shove the key into the lock, push the door open, and step into blessed silence.

Dropping my bag by the couch, I kick off my sandals and peel out of my soaked clothes, leaving them in a heap on the bathroom floor. The hot shower hisses to life, steam curling through the room, washing away the last traces of the storm.

By the time I crawl into bed, hair damp and skin flushed, exhaustion presses down on me like a weight. My phone buzzes once on the nightstand — a calendar alert. I roll over, bleary-eyed, and glance at the screen.

Event Reminder: Coffee with Caine – 9:00 AM

My heart stops.

I don't remember setting that.

My thumb hovers, ready to delete it, but then another notification flashes.

Event Updated: Dinner with Caine – 7:00 PM.

My hands go cold. I sit up, pulse roaring in my ears. The phone vibrates one more time before going still. When I pick it up again, the screen is blank. No events. No reminders. Just the ordinary home screen, as if nothing happened at all.

The silence in my apartment feels wrong. Too heavy.

I lock the phone, shove it under my pillow, and tell myself over and over: It's fine. You're safe. You're fine.

But sleep doesn't come.

Not with the lingering sense that I'm not alone.

The apartment is too quiet. Normally, I don't mind the silence—it's better than the chaos of the city—but tonight it presses against me like a weight.

I toss and turn for an hour, every creak in the walls pulling me back from the edge of sleep. The radiator hisses. A pipe groans. The neighbor upstairs thuds around like he's dropping furniture. Normal sounds. Harmless.

And yet, each one makes my skin prickle.

Eventually, I can't stand it anymore. I throw the covers back and pad barefoot into the kitchen, tugging a hoodie over my tank top. The clock on the microwave blinks 1:47 AM in stubborn green digits.

I pour myself a glass of water, but when I set the cup down on the counter, I freeze.

The dish rack.

I didn't leave a mug there. I know I didn't. I hadn't even used one today. And yet, there it sits—clean, upside down, a faint drip of water still clinging to the rim.

My chest tightens. Maybe I forgot. Maybe I did wash it. Maybe—

A floorboard creaks.

This time, it isn't the neighbors. It's too close. Too deliberate. From the direction of my bedroom.

I grip the edge of the counter, forcing a laugh into the empty apartment. "Get it together, Alie. You're just spooked. That's all."

But I don't go back to bed. Instead, I curl up on the couch, hoodie pulled tight, lights still on, my phone clutched to my chest.

Sleep comes in fits and starts, thin and restless.

And when the morning sun finally drags me awake, the first thing I notice is the faint smell of cologne in the air. Not mine. Not anyone's I know.

Something dark. Sharp. Expensive.

The scent is almost soothing, and I shut my eyes, desperate for a few more minutes of sleep.

———

CAINE

She thought she left me behind when she climbed into that car. But she doesn't understand—I'm stitched into the seams of her life now. There's no leaving me.

While her driver pulled away, I took the long way to her apartment. I don't rush anymore. I don't need to. I already know the rhythms of her world better than she does.

Her building was dark, quiet, half the tenants gone or asleep. Slipping inside was easy—I've had a copy of her key for weeks. The first time she left it on the café counter, distracted by her laptop, I had it duplicated before her coffee even went cold.

Inside, I breathed her in. Her apartment smells like her—vanilla shampoo, cheap laundry soap, the faint bitterness of coffee grounds left too long in the trash. It's small, cluttered, imperfect. But it's hers. Which makes it mine.

I moved through the rooms like I always do, fingers trailing over the spines of her books, the chipped mugs in her cabinet, the notebooks stacked messily on her desk. I read the half-finished sentences scrawled across her pages, fragments of a story she'll never finish now that her agent's gone. She doesn't know it yet, but I'll be her agent, her editor, her savior. I'll give her the freedom to write, without worry or distraction.

I left the mug in the dish rack deliberately, still damp so she'd notice. I pressed one of my ties—silk, navy blue—between her sweaters in the drawer. I opened her phone, synced it again with mine. A few event reminders, a few soft nudges, nothing too heavy yet. She needs time to adjust.

When she turned on the shower, I sat in the corner of her bedroom, leather jacket creaking faintly whenever I shifted. Steam curled under the door, carrying her warmth into the room.

She hummed softly as the water struck her skin, and the sound wrapped around me like a chain. I tilted my head back, eyes closing, imagining the spray sliding down her, the arch of her neck, the soft gasp she made when the heat spiked.

Desire coiled low and sharp, not gentle, never gentle. She doesn't know yet—but this intimacy is already mine. Every breath, every sound.

The urge to open the door, to step into the steam and let her see me, was nearly overwhelming. To brand her with the truth: you're mine.

But patience makes the hunger sweeter.

So I stayed in the shadows, listening as the water shut off, as she toweled herself dry, as she padded barefoot into the room—oblivious to the man only feet away, eyes wide open, every nerve on fire.

Later, while she curled on the couch in her hoodie, pretending the light would keep her safe, I walked her apartment again. I brushed my fingertips over her pillow, breathed against her sheets, whispered her name into the still air. Not loud enough for her to hear. Just loud enough to claim it.

On her nightstand, I rearranged the stack of books so the one she avoids was on top. In the kitchen, I turned one chair ever so slightly askew. Small changes. Enough to gnaw at her. To remind her she's not imagining me.

When I finally left, just before dawn, I locked the door behind me. She never stirred. She never saw me standing there in the doorway, watching her chest rise and fall.

The black car outside was waiting, engine purring. Not to take me away, but to stay. To watch. To remind her:

She is never alone.

I could have stayed all morning, watching her sleep in that ridiculous hoodie, but anticipation tastes better when you let it stretch. Besides, she had work to do.

Work for me.

Of course, she doesn't know that. Not yet.

Alie thinks she's a cog in the machine—an invisible remote assistant, shuffling through endless to-do lists for clients she's never met. But she doesn't realize I am the machine. That the client she answers emails for every morning, the one whose schedule she so carefully tends, is me. That the contract paying her bills is one I designed specifically for her.

She logs in promptly, like always. I watch her from my desk, her pale face lit by the glow of her screen. She chews her bottom lip as she scrolls through the task list I've curated for her. I imagine the taste of her lip, the warmth of her mouth. Soon.

This morning's assignments are simple. On the surface.

First: order gifts for a "client's partner." High-end lingerie, silks and lace. She'll hesitate, blush faintly as she compares sizes on the screen. I chose the measurements with care, tailored to her, though she doesn't know it. She'll shake her head, maybe laugh to herself, wondering what kind of man sends his mistress ten sets of lingerie in one order. She won't realize she's picking out her own wardrobe for me, piece by delicate piece.

Second: confirm a monthly subscription for a personal shopper. She'll sigh, annoyed at the extravagance. But she'll dutifully tick through the checklist: wine, chocolate, pens, a brand of lotion she buys only when she's feeling indulgent. All her favorites. I picture her frowning, confused when the packages arrive at her door in a few days. She'll think it's a mistake, maybe even a pleasant one. Luck. Coincidence. She won't trace it back to me—yet.

I lean back in my chair, watching her through the feed. Every keystroke is mine to savor. She doesn't know her humming drifts through my speakers, a sound so soft it feels like she's in the room with me. She doesn't know that when she pauses to stretch, rubbing her neck, I'm mirroring her movements, imagining the weight of her head in my hand, the warmth of her skin against my palm.

This is the art of patience. The slow weaving of a web around her until she can't move without touching me. Until she looks up from her screen one day and realizes every choice she thought was hers was mine all along.

She thinks she's earning money.

But really, she's just spending mine.

On herself.

On us.

Every click of her mouse is foreplay. Every task she completes for me is another thread binding her closer.

And the best part?

She thanks me for it—without even knowing it's me.

———

ALIE

I wake to the steady hiss of tires on wet asphalt and the faintest trace of cologne I don't own. For half a second I lie still, not breathing, waiting for a footstep that doesn't come.

Nothing. Just the city.

I ease the curtain back. The black car is still there across the street, engine low, windows too dark to see through. I tell myself it's a rideshare between pickups. I tell myself a lot of things.

Coffee first. Reality later.

In the kitchen, my chair is slightly off-kilter from the table—angled like someone sat down and pushed away. I correct it without thinking, then stop, hand midair. Did I leave it like that last night? The mug in the rack is still there too. Clean. Dripping. I haven't used it. I'm sure I haven't.

"Get a grip," I mutter, and start the kettle.

The routine helps. Grind beans. Rinse filter. Pour slow circles while steam fogs my glasses. The first sip burns in a good way, anchoring me. I open the window to let in the rain-smell and watch the car until it pulls away, turning the corner like it was never there.

My laptop wakes with a blink. I log into the client portal for my remote assistant gig—the one that actually pays on time—and my day populates in tidy blocks of color. Meetings, orders, vendor follow-ups. The client's name at the top is the usual placeholder: C. B. Holdings. No face. No bio. Just money.

A new task pings.

Order Confirmation: Boutique Set

Priority: High

Notes: "For partner—prefer red/cream. See size specs attached."

A P*F opens with measurements more specific than any man should know. The sizes are... familiar. I swallow. Coincidence. Lots of people have my measurements. Statistically. Probably.

I tell myself this twice, then three times, and click through to the boutique site. The photos are tasteful, expensive, dangerously pretty. I hesitate over a slip in deep scarlet and a balconette set in cream with tiny embroidered flowers. My mouse lingers. I picture the "partner" these are meant for—whoever she is. I wonder whether she knows he's buying this for her, whether she'll get the box and glow with that warm, fizzy feeling of being wanted.

I add both to cart.

Another ping.

Subscription: Personal Shopper

Action: Approve + initial preferences.

Notes: "Same as usual. Add: Montepulciano, sea-salt caramels, gel pens, shea lotion."

My stomach does a little flip. That exact wine. Those exact caramels. The gel pens I hoard for edits. The lotion I buy only when I'm pretending things are fine.

I open the preference survey anyway, cheeks warming. All right. So me and the billionaire's mistress share taste in snacks and office supplies. Congratulations to us both.

The chat bubble pops.

CB_OFFICE: Can you bump the lingerie shipping to rush? Unexpected timeline.

ME: Sure—deliver to which address?

CB_OFFICE: Same address as on file. Thanks, A.

"A." I read it twice. The staffing agency uses my full name in all communications. A stranger shortening it on the first ping of the morning sours the coffee on my tongue.

I route the order to the usual warehouse address listed on the account. Everything checks out—standard corporate shipping hub, not a personal location. I exhale. Maybe the universe doesn't revolve around me being paranoid. Maybe I'm just keyed up from last night.

The next two hours blur into a happy routine: calendar tweaks, travel holds, a sharp little email I draft and send on behalf of CB to a vendor who assumed "expedited" meant "sometime this decade." I cc the agency's proxy address and watch my empty personal inbox with a strange, superstitious relief.

At 11:14 my phone buzzes.

Your Instacart order is on the way!

I didn't place an Instacart order.

My doorbell rings nine minutes later. The delivery guy hands me two crisp, heavy bags that smell like rosemary and rain. Inside: the Montepulciano. Sea-salt caramels. Those ridiculous gel pens in jewel tones. My lotion.

"Wrong address?" I ask.

He scans the label. "Alie Lynds, right? Paid tip's already on. Have a good one."

Back at my laptop, I open the shopper subscription dashboard. It shows a new client set-up—C. B. Holdings—with a linked "gift program." The intended recipient: A. L. I click the info icon. The details blur like bad TV, then resolve. It's all perfectly legitimate, scrupulously dull. Corporate generosity. A small perk for contractors. No red flags. Unless you count the part where the universe is messing with me.

The car is back across the street. I can feel it without looking.

I turn the bottle of wine in my hands, watch violet-black cling to the glass, and tell myself to accept nice things when they happen. My ex-agent used to say I exhausted people with my suspicion, that I read menace into kindness. "It's not a plot twist if everyone is trying to kill you," he joked once, right before he left me for someone with fewer sharp edges. He said it with a smile, like a punchline. I laughed like it didn't hit bone.

I uncork the bottle and pour half a glass. It's not even noon. I don't care. I take a careful sip and let warmth pool low in my chest.

Another task drops—a true admin special.

Data Entry: Contacts + Preferences

Priority: Normal

Notes: "Consolidate spreadsheet. Favorite colors, sizes, materials for gift recipients. Use template."

The spreadsheet is an immaculate grid of people I don't know: donors? partners? The "partner" line is blank except for a code. I scroll. Favorite color: red. Fabric: silk. Perfume: notes of vanilla, amber. Ring size entry. Shoe size. Dress size.

My sizes. All of them. Not generically "like mine." Exactly mine.

I go very still.

The cursor waits in the box like a blinking dare. I can close the document. I can log off. I can call the agency and ask why someone's creepy personal database looks like it's been scraped off my life.

Instead I tab to a new sheet and keep typing, because the car is still outside, and last night was already too much, and walking away from the one client that pays on time won't fix anything if it's all just in my head.

I add a note to the template: Verify compliance with privacy policy. It's nothing. It's everything.

At 1:07, while I'm debating whether "amber-vanilla" counts as one note or two, there's a soft thud at my door. Not a knock. A delivery.

A slim box sits on my mat. No brand. No return label. My name printed in tidy black letters. The kind of package you see in commercials where everything is perfect and no one's ever bled on the tile.

Inside: tissue paper, charcoal gray, folded with precise, fussy care. Nestled in it, a velvet drawstring bag the color of a bruise.

I sit on the floor because my knees don't trust me. I open the bag.

A key glints in my palm. Old-fashioned, heavy, not a practical key at all—one of those glossy, romantic replicas, long neck, ornate head cut into a heart if you tilt it, into a blade if you don't. A tiny metal tag hangs from black thread: MINE on one side, TO KEEP on the other.

The room tilts. Sound drops out to a pinpoint. The kettle clicks in the kitchen; I'd forgotten I'd put it back on. My phone buzzes with a calendar ping. The spreadsheet waits on my screen.

I set the key down very carefully in the velvet, like it might bite, and carry the box to the sink. I should throw it away. I should call someone. I should do anything but stand here and breathe that faint trace of cologne that is definitely in my apartment again, drifting like a fingerprint I can't dust.

I wash my hands twice. I scrub the places his cologne isn't: wrists, palms, between my fingers. When I look up, my reflection in the dark microwave door looks wrecked. I paste on a neutral face for no one.

Back at my desk, the chat bubble appears.

CB_OFFICE: Thanks for moving fast on the boutique order. Add one more set—the red slip in smaller size. Returning client prefers adaptability.

ME: Done.

CB_OFFICE: Good work, A.

A again. Not Alie. Not Ms. Lynds. A, like a secret nickname in a mouth I can't see.

I add the slip to the order and feel that strange, traitorous pulse of heat—humiliation braided with something else I don't want to name. I hate that buying something pretty for a stranger steadies my hands. I hate that a tidy task list can calm me more than deep breaths ever do.

At 3:30, the agency pings me:

AGENCY: Great client feedback. Tip posted. Keep availability open this week?

I check my bank app. The tip is already there. It's generous enough to knock my breath sideways. Rent, groceries, a new pair of decent shoes without holes. My throat tightens, fury and relief in equal measure. Being broke makes you easy to own. I know this. I still breathe easier.

The black car is gone when I finally look. In its place, parked not exactly where it sat but close enough to shadow the same stretch of curb, is a silver one. Different make. Same tint. I tell myself that means nothing and start dinner early: eggs, toast, half an avocado that's probably turning under its glossy skin.

I pull a sweater from my drawer because the apartment is always colder than it should be, and my fingers brush something smooth and cool. Silk. Not mine. Navy. A tie folded like a secret. It smells like that cologne—dark and clean and deliberate.

For a moment I just hold it, the weight of it like a hand across my wrists. A sound escapes me, nothing polite. I put the tie back exactly how I found it, close the drawer very gently, and lean my forehead against the wood until a laugh breaks out of me, quiet and shocked and edged with something that might be hysterical.

I eat standing at the counter. I wash the dishes. I angle the kitchen chair exactly where it was this morning and commit the angle to memory. I take the key out again, trace the cutwork, put it away.

At 7:02 p.m., the calendar pings:

Dinner with C—

It blinks and vanishes.

I sit very still, palms flat on the table, and wait for the next shoe to fall. It doesn't. The apartment hums.

Eventually, because I am tired and the world is absurd and I can't hold back a tide with my hands, I open a new document and start to write—just a paragraph, a sentence, a word. Something about a woman who mistakes silence for safety. Something about a man who thinks wanting is the same as loving. The words come out thinner than I want, but they come. It's enough.

When I finally shut my laptop, the city has dried to a glossy, wet quiet. I go to the window. The silver car idles in a different spot now, a patient shift to keep the same view. I meet my own reflection in the glass, and for a second, I see what he might see: a girl in a small apartment, chin up, refusing to cry on a Tuesday.

I let the curtain fall.

"Not yours," I say to the empty room, voice steady.

From the street, a horn taps once, soft as a secret. Or maybe I imagined it. I'm starting to lose track of the difference.

I lock the door. I check it twice. I tuck the velvet bag under the heaviest book on my shelf and tell myself that means something. I climb into bed with my hoodie and the wrong sweater, and when sleep takes me, it's sudden and full of rain.

Across the street, an engine turns over. Somewhere below my window, someone waits.