ROGUE

The Chosen's Demise

The lights in Nathan's house casts an ambient glow on the plain walls. I've never seen him look at me with such intensity before. As we sit in his living room couch, I play with the hem of my shirt, finding the threadbare fabric a feeble distraction from the weight of my confession.

"He's everywhere, Nathan," I say softly, my voice barely rising above the sound of his television. "Dex, I mean. It's like he's keeping tabs on me, and it's getting worse."

Nathan leans forward, his eyes locked with mine, his expression a mix of concern and determination. "Why haven't you talked to anyone about this? You keeping this to yourself isn't helping anyone. The guy is clearly obsessed with you. Guys go crazy over what they can't have."

I fumble with my response, feeling the weight of Nathan's words settle in the pit of my stomach. He's right, of course. Dex's obsession with me has escalated to a level that I can no longer ignore. But how do I confront him without making things worse?

"I know, fuck..." I whisper, my voice shaky and uncertain. "But every time I think about saying something, I'm overwhelmed by this fear...fear of hurting him, fear of the repercussions. What if he does something drastic?"

Nathan reaches out and gently takes my hand in his, his touch providing a sense of grounding amidst the storm brewing in my mind. His eyes are filled with empathy as he speaks, his voice so steady it provides a flicker of hope. "Then we call the fucking cops on his ass. You need to prioritize your safety and well-being," he says firmly.

I hesitate, not sure where to start—the late-night texts that started innocently enough, or the way Dex looms too close when we're alone on shift. Especially night shifts. But the floodgates open, and I spill every detail, every incident that seemed minor at first but now forms a chilling pattern. The way Dex appears at the coffee shop when I'm there, the gifts I never asked for left in my locker, the relentless messages that push past friendly and into something darker.

"Has he ever hurt you?" Nathan's voice is steady but laced with an undercurrent of anger.

"No, not physically. But I can't shake this dread, like I'm walking on eggshells or something." My hands tremble, so I clasp them tightly together.

"Hey," Nathan reaches out, his hand covering mine, warm and reassuring. "You're not alone in this. You know that, right?"

His touch grounds me, and I nod, feeling a flicker of something more than fear—gratitude, maybe even trust. We sit like that for a moment, hands clasped, the rest of the world fading into a blur.

"Thanks," I murmur, the words catching in my throat. "For listening, for... for being here."

"You think I'm just here for the sex? Well, I am shocked and dismayed." Nathan's attempt at lightening the mood brings a faint smile to my lips, even amidst the gravity of the situation.

"Shut up. You know what I mean," I reply, the warmth in his eyes reflecting back at me. "You've been there for me even when you ghost the shit out of me most of the time." I jokingly push him away and he chuckles.

"Of course I have. We've got to look out for each other. That's what friends do. Don't they?" Nathan says, but his eyes hold a depth of emotion that suggests a connection beyond mere this friends with benefits situation between us.

I can't help but lean into that warmth, the simple human contact that feels like a lifeline. In the quiet of his living room, with the thrum of electricity and the chill of the air conditioner, I let myself find solace in Nathan's presence. We share a silence that speaks volumes, our shared vulnerability offering a brief respite from the anxiety that's been gnawing at me.