As if hearing my thoughts, he takes a few steps closer, his hand periodically pulling the cigarette from his mouth as he puffs. Is he... challenging me? My spine snaps straight, and white-hot rage fills my vision. Who the hell does this dude think he is? Growling under my breath, I storm to my door, unlock it and whip it open. He turns his head to face me, and for a moment, I almost develop a brain and run back inside. Steeling my spine, I angrily stomp down the steps and charge towards him. “Hey, asshole! If you don’t get off my property, I wi// call the cops.” Later, I’1l ask God why She made me the way that I am, but right now, all I can do is plant two of my hands on his chest and push when I get close enough. I don’t allow myself to register the defined muscles under his hoodie—because only psychos would focus on that right now. The behemoth of a man doesn’t move back an inch. Nor does he speak. Or react. Or do anything. Harsh, angry breaths huff from my nose like a bull as I glare at the hooded man. I can’t see much of his face except the bottom half, but I can feel his eyes burning into me. Soon, my body will smolder until there’s nothing left but ashes dancing in the cold wind. “What do you want from me?” I hiss, curling my hands into fists, only to abate the shaking. My whole body has begun to vibrate from anger and fear. But also from something else. Something so disturbing, I refuse to put a name to it. He doesn’t answer, but he does grin—a slow, sinful twist of his lips that sends sparks skittering down my spine. With deliberation, his tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip. My eyes zero in on the movement. The act primal. Animalistic. And fucking terrifying. My heart starts to claw its way up my throat. Swallowing it back down, I narrow my eyes and open my mouth to yell at him some more. Before I can, he takes a single step back. And though I can’t see it, I know he’s giving me a once-over. Then he turns and walks away. Just like that. Not a single word spoken. Not an explanation offered. Not even a crazy confession of how he wants us to be together or some shit. Nothing. I stand there and watch his retreating form, going back to whatever portal from Hell he crawled out of. I stare until he’s gone, and I begin to contemplate if I really have lost my mind, and just imagined the whole thing. Surely, I wouldn’t be so stupid to confront a psychopath. The very psychopath that cut off a man’s hands and left them on my doorstep.