Reckless {HS}

seven

Delilah's Pov

Something's not right.

It's been days since I found the note in my jacket pocket, and I can't shake the feeling that someone's watching me. At first, I thought it was just my imagination—maybe the hangover was messing with my head, or maybe I was still trying to piece together what happened that night at the club. But now, it feels constant, like eyes following me everywhere I go.

I keep replaying the moments in my head: running into him, those green eyes boring into mine, the way he caught me when I almost fell. He was so calm, like he knew exactly what to do—like he'd done it before. That's the part I can't let go of. He felt familiar.

And then there was the note.

You should be more careful next time. Signed -H.

Who the hell is H?

The name, or rather the lack of it, was driving me insane. I've gone over that night a hundred times, searching for any clue that might explain who he is. But I've come up empty. And now, everywhere I go, I feel like I'm being followed. Even in broad daylight, surrounded by people, there's this nagging sensation at the back of my neck, like someone's watching from a distance.

Maybe I'm losing it. Maybe I've let this get too far into my head. But I can't stop thinking about him. About those green eyes.

I step out of my apartment, pulling my jacket tight against the cool autumn breeze. My phone buzzes in my pocket, a reminder of something, but I ignore it. My mind is somewhere else entirely. Even walking down the street feels different now. I find myself glancing over my shoulder more often, scanning the faces in the crowd, looking for something—or someone. But I never see him.

At least, not directly.

I know he's there. I can feel it. I'll be sitting in class, staring out the window, and I swear I catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. A shadow, maybe. Someone just out of view. And then, when I look again, there's nothing.

But the clues have been piling up. Little things. A napkin left on my table at the café with a single word written on it: soon. A text from an unknown number that simply said, watch yourself. And last night, when I was leaving campus, I found another note slipped under the windshield wiper of my car.

You're getting warmer.

I should be scared, right? I should go to the police, tell someone, anyone, about what's happening. But instead, I feel... exhilarated. Like I'm chasing something just out of reach. My curiosity has become an obsession, and I can't stop. I need to know who he is. Why he's doing this. Why he's playing this game with me.

I hurry through the park, my eyes flicking around, scanning the trees, the benches, the paths winding in every direction. I'm looking for him. H. My heart races, but not from fear. From excitement. What does that say about me? That I'm not scared of this man who's been watching me, leaving me messages that most people would find threatening?

It's like I'm drawn to him.

I stop near the fountain, standing still for a moment, letting the sounds of the city wash over me. People walk by without noticing me, without seeing that I'm unraveling right in front of them. But I feel it—the weight of someone's gaze. I don't know where it's coming from, but it's there. Always there.

He's close. I can feel it.

I pull out my phone, staring at the screen, fingers hovering over the number of that unknown text. Should I respond? Would it even make a difference? I don't even know what I'd say. I tuck the phone back into my pocket, frustrated. He's playing with me, leaving me breadcrumbs to follow, but I can't figure out the endgame.

The tension is getting unbearable. Every night, I dream of those green eyes. Every day, I feel him somewhere just beyond my reach, watching, waiting. And now, I can't stop myself from wanting to see him again, to confront him, to demand answers.

I think back to the robbery. The bank. I know I've seen him before. That memory has haunted me since the moment I stumbled into him at the club. There's something about him that's tied to that day—a connection I can't ignore. But every time I try to focus on it, it slips away, just like he does.

My mind races as I leave the park, my thoughts spiraling. I don't know what I'm getting myself into. All I know is that this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

I walk faster now, almost running, as the feeling of being watched tightens around me like a noose. And yet, despite the fear creeping up my spine, there's a thrill in the air. The thrill of the hunt.

Who are you, H?