Stalked By My Boyfriends Best Friend

The Call

Luna’s POV

Present Time

I throw the bag to the floor and collapse into the chair, but before I can even think about relaxing, my whole body goes rigid. There it is again. That smell. My nostrils flare as I sniff the air, searching for its source. It’s faint, but it lingers every time I come home. What the hell is that? It’s not foul, not exactly unpleasant, but the mystery of it unsettles me. There’s no reason for it to be here. No explanation.

I lean back, trying to shake it off, but my eyes drift toward the window. A chill races up my spine. Standing up slowly, I walk over, each step heavier than the last. And then I see it.

“What the actual f*ck?”

My hands tremble as I reach for my phone, my fingers fumbling over the screen until I hit his name.

“Hey babes,” Justin mumbles casually, his voice dripping with nonchalance.

“Justin, can you come over? There’s a weird f*cking heart drawn on my window—outside!” My voice pitches, panic creeping in despite my efforts to sound calm.

He laughs. He actually laughs.

“Is there anything that suggests this person’s trying to hurt you?” he asks, sounding more amused than concerned.

“Are you kidding me? Justin! Someone’s been here! That’s the point!” I snap, frustration boiling over. How can he be so dismissive?

“Babes, it’s outside. Chill. I’ll swing by later, okay?”

Fine. I guess I don’t have much choice.

“Whatever,” I whisper, feeling my stomach twist.

“Just keep the door locked. You’ll be fine.” His words hang in the air as the line clicks dead.

Fine? He thinks this is fine? I sigh, defeated, and drag myself to the bathroom. Everyone thinks this is a joke. Funny. Cute, even. But it’s not. It’s been months of this sh*t—small, creepy gifts sent to my doorstep. What started as innocent gestures like chocolates turned darker. The last gift? Rope. Actual rope.

But no, to Justin, it’s all hilarious. I strip down, stepping into the bath, the warm water rising around me as I try to push the unease out of my mind. Six months. Six f*cking months of this, and still, the police say there’s nothing they can do. “It’s not threatening,” they say. There are no signs of forced entry, no clear danger—until my little stalker takes it up a notch, I just have to live with it.

The water covers my face as I sink deeper, holding my breath, trying to drown out my thoughts. But then—there it is. A muffled sound. My head shoots up, water dripping down my face as I glance toward the door. It’s cracked open.

“Justin?” I call, my voice barely more than a whisper. Silence. Did I leave it open? My mind races, but I can’t remember. Everything feels blurry, unreal. I step out of the tub, the air cold against my wet skin as I wrap the towel around myself and venture out. My heart pounds, eyes scanning every corner of the room.

Nothing.

Maybe I left it open. Maybe it was just the wind. But the dread gnawing at my insides tells me otherwise. I let out a shaky breath and walk back to the bath, hanging the towel up before sliding back in. I try to relax, reaching for the shampoo, but my hand freezes. It’s not where I left it.

The bottle is lying on the floor.

That was the sound.

I laugh, a weak, hollow sound, my nerves frayed. I must’ve knocked it over earlier. Stupid. Washing my hair, I sink into the bath again, trying to push the paranoia away. I reach for my book, careful not to get the pages wet, and begin to read, slowly losing myself in the story. The heart on the window, the gifts, the stalker—everything fades into the background for a brief, blissful moment.

Then my phone rings.

Without thinking, I answer it. “Yes?”

Silence.

“Justin? Is this you?” I ask, my heart starting to race again. The silence stretches on, punctuated only by a low, heavy breathing on the other end. My body stiffens, every muscle tensing. “Hello?” I whisper, my voice shaking. The breathing deepens, a grunt slipping through the line.

“Luna,” a rough voice growls. It’s raw, primal.

I drop the phone in the bath, panic surging through me. “F*ck!” I fumble to retrieve it, water sloshing everywhere. “You f*cking asshole!” I scream into the dead phone, my voice trembling. Grabbing a towel, I wrap myself up and rush out of the bathroom, my pulse hammering in my ears. Grabbing the hairdryer, I try to salvage the phone, my mind racing, replaying that dark voice in my head. He’s never spoken before. Never. And the way he groaned... it was like he was doing far more than just talking to me.

I feel sick. I can’t do this anymore. I want to move. I want to disappear. Whoever this is, they’re not going to stop, and I’m trapped in this nightmare, waiting for it to get worse. How long have I been sitting here, drying my phone? My legs have gone numb.

Suddenly, the door clicks open.

“What are you doing?” Justin strolls in, utterly unbothered, a smirk on his face. Dante follows close behind. Of course. Just what I need. “Babes?” Justin’s grin widens as he takes in the sight of me, towel-clad and frantic.

“He called me, Justin! While I was in the bath!”

“Okay... and what did he say?” Justin asks, sitting down casually, like we’re talking about the weather. Dante takes a seat too, his eyes roaming over me, making my skin crawl.

“He said my name,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

Justin laughs, loud and careless. “You’re freaking out over someone saying your name?”

“Are you serious? He’s been watching me, Justin! I dropped my phone in the bath because of him!”

“Yeah, but all he did was say your name. Chill out.” Justin leans back, laughing even harder.

Dante chuckles darkly. “That’s how it starts, you know. Small gifts, whispers, your name on the phone. Then, one night, you wake up, and he’s sitting at the foot of your bed. Watching you sleep.”

I glare at him, my stomach knotting. “Thanks, Dante. Thanks a lot.”

He just grins, his eyes glinting. “You’re welcome, little deer.”

Little deer. That nickname freezes me to the spot, and Justin bursts out laughing again.

“Yeah, if your eyes get any wider, I’d be worried they’ll pop right out of your head,” Justin teases, his grin infuriating.

“F*ck you both,” I mutter, storming back to the bathroom, but the pit in my stomach only deepens.