Page 94 of Stalkers Anonymous

“Once, for work. Didn’t get to see much, but enough to know I want to go back.” His eyes get this faraway look. “There’s something about being in a place that quiet. Makes all the noise in your head go silent for a while.”

The vulnerability in that admission catches me off guard. For all his confidence, there are moments where Cole lets the mask slip just enough to show something deeper underneath.

“I get that,” I say softly. “That’s why I hike. The mountains don’t care about hospital drama or patient complaints. They’re just…there. Being mountains.”

“Exactly.”

Our food arrives, and I find myself relaxing into the easy rhythm of conversation. This is what I like about Cole—he doesn’t make every conversation feel like a job interview. He asks questions because he’s genuinely curious, not because he’s checking boxes.

“Okay, your turn,” I say, stealing one of his fries because I have no self-control. “Ask me something.”

“Biggest fear.”

“Going dark immediately, I see.”

“You said ask something. I’m asking.”

I think about it for a moment, debating between a joke answer and the truth. Something about the way he’s looking at me makes me choose honesty.

“Being invisible,” I finally say. “Not literally. But like, the fear that I could disappear and nobody would notice. That I don’t actually matter to anyone.”

Cole’s expression shifts into something serious. “That’s not possible.”

“Fears aren’t usually rational.”

“No, I mean—” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “You’re not the kind of person who disappears. You take up space. In a good way. People notice you, Hailey. I notice you.”

The intensity in his voice makes my chest tight. “That’s… Thank you.”

“I’m not being nice. I’m being honest.”

We sit with that for a moment, then Cole clears his throat.

“Mine is losing control,” he offers. “Of myself. Of situations. The feeling that things are spiraling and I can’t stop them.”

“Is that why you’re so…”

“Intense?” He smiles wryly. “Probably. Turns out childhood trauma manifests in fun and exciting ways.”

For most of dinner, Cole talks about his work, about a particularly challenging client project that he makes sound both complicated and vaguely heroic. I find myself relaxing into the easy rhythm of our conversation.

He’s charming, attentive, genuinely interested in my thoughts about everything from hospital politics to my favorite hiking trails. This is the Cole I’ve been falling for—intelligent, calm, collected.

My salad is fine. His burger looks incredible. I steal another fry when he’s not looking, and it’s halfway to my mouth when he mentions how early I must have gotten up this morning to go for my run.

And I know—I know—I didn’t tell him about my running routine.

My salad turns leaden in my stomach. I put down the fry on the edge of my plate, unsure if I could bring myself to swallow another bite.

“Cole,” I say carefully. “How did you know I went on a run this morning?”

He freezes, a perfect still life of Man Eating Burger. For just a moment, his expression shows something that looks almost like panic before smoothing over.

“I guess I just assumed. I saw your tennis shoes next to the door when I was at your place. They looked more broken-in than just…social-media runner aesthetic.”

Is he trying to gaslight me right now? And was that supposed to be a compliment or a dig at the state of my shoes?

But Cole is looking at me with the same warm attention as always. I’m suddenly not sure what’s real anymore. Am I being paranoid because of the whole Lars Winters situation?