Normally, he might have. But it looks like I might have to save his life instead and get the hell away from him. An hour passes, and I grow more nervous as each minute ticks by. I haven’t received another text, but it’s sitting there, weighing down the back of my brain. I fear my brain stem will snap from the tension. Arch’s hands definitely touch me. One currently rests on my thigh, dangerously close to my center. I stare down at the star tattooed on his thumb, my mind conjuring images of holding it—without his body attached. Yet, I let it happen, even though I shouldn’t. And because I shouldn’t, I can’t stop staring at them, imagining them chopped off at the wrist and bloody. Sitting in my mailbox. I don’t even have a mailbox. My house is too far back from the road, so my mail is just left on my front step. Shouldn’t a stalker know that? What a shitty little shadow. “You having fun?” Arch asks, nudging me with his shoulders. I nod absently as I continue to abuse my lip trapped beneath my teeth. I should run. I should tell this man to get his hand off of me if only it means it’Il never be severed from his body and left in my nonexistent mailbox. “You’re tense,” Arch observes quietly. I clear my throat and open my mouth, but another buzz from my back pocket interrupts me.