Chapter 1

The day I found someone hiding under my bed, I didn't call the cops.

I tossed the man named Donald Walker a blanket and casually asked if he could take my trash out while he was at it.

After all, in those days, finding a free bodyguard and full-time butler was pretty much impossible.

Donald thought he was being all possessive, lurking in the shadows, trying to take over my life.

But honestly, I was getting pampered with targeted care and enjoying premium retirement benefits.

He asked why I wasn't trying to escape.

I looked around at the piles of snacks and thought that all my needs had been taken care of without ever stepping outside.

Run? Seriously? Out there, the air was basically made of social interaction. That was pure poison for someone like me.

*****

I'd been feeling something was off in my apartment for a week.

As a hardcore shut-in, my social anxiety was off the charts.

Unless I had to pick up food or packages, I basically never stepped outside.

I installed security cams at home, not to keep out thieves, but so I could check if the delivery guy was gone before I dared step outside.

That day, I was replaying the footage when I noticed something weird.

I was sure I'd left half a box of fried chicken on the table last night, but on the security cam, at 3 AM, a long, slender hand reached out from under my bed.

The hand had prominent knuckles, cold, pale skin, and radiated strength.

The person snatched up the fried chicken without looking where it was.

I stared at the screen, got lost in my own thoughts.

My first thought wasn't fear but "Wow, the hand is actually gorgeous."

My second thought was, "The person really ate my leftovers without hesitating."

And then it hit me that since a person was living under my bed, I could skip taking out the trash.

My bestie, Briar Carter, always said my brain was wired a little funny.

She claimed that with my personality, it was only a matter of time before some psycho scooped me up.

I told her, "Honestly, if some psycho feeds me and lets me stay quiet, he'd basically be my second parent."

I turned off the monitor and walked over to the bed.

I could feel the breathing under the bed suddenly freeze.

The person was tense.

I crouched down and whispered into the darkness under the bed, "Hey, cold fried chicken isn't good. The microwave is in the kitchen.

"You can use it to heat the kitchen. Oh, and while you're at it, could you take out the trash bag by the door? Thanks."

There was total silence under the bed.

After what felt like forever, a low, magnetic voice finally drifted out from the darkness. "Not gonna call the cops?"

I let out a sigh. "If I call the cops, I'd have to talk to the officers, and then go down to the station to fill out a bunch of paperwork.

"That's way too much hassle. I really can't handle social stuff. As long as you don't kill me or mess with my sleep, knock yourself out."

After that day, the guy from under my bed came out.

His name was Donald Walker.

He didn't look like a psycho at all.

He was wearing a teal shirt so faded that it was almost white, paired with jeans, and he carried a faint, fresh scent of grass and leaves.

When he smiled, his eyes curved into crescents, making him look like a harmless big kid.

If he hadn't been holding a little knife for picking locks, I would've thought he was some college kid who got lost on his way back to the dorms.

Donald looked at me, a hint of bewilderment flickering in his eyes. "Iyla, you're really not afraid of me?"

I shrugged and gestured at my computer. "As long as I've got internet and food, anyone can live here for all I care. Can you cook?"

Donald froze. He'd clearly never run into someone like me before.

He probably showed up with a whole list of threats, maybe brought some rope in case.

But in the end, he nodded, still looking a bit dazed. "Yeah, I can cook."

"Alright then, from now on, you're in charge of cooking and grabbing my deliveries," I said. "You don't have to pay rent. This place was left to me by my parents anyway.

"As long as you don't make me go out or do any social stuff, you can do whatever you want."

Donald's eyes darkened.

He walked up to me, a full head taller than me.

He bent down, tilting my chin up with his cold fingers. "Iyla Barker, I am stalking you. I've been monitoring you for three months. I know all your habits. I even think about locking you away somewhere only I could find you."

I nodded, my eyes sparkling. "Really? That's awesome. Can you lock me up right now? That way, I'll have a perfect excuse to bail on Briar's birthday party next week. You can tell her you kidnapped me and don't allow me to leave my home."

Donald's hand stiffened.

It was like his brain short-circuited right then.

He stared at me, and after a long pause, finally squeezed out a line. "Are you insane?"

I replied dead serious, "I've got social anxiety, terminal stage."