It wasn’t stalking, okay? Stalking implied intent to harm, and your intentions toward Lottie were practically saintly. If sainthood involved memorizing, favorite flowers? Tulips. Least favorite subject? Chemistry. Her handwriting is slightly slanted, like it’s trying to lean off the page but like elegantly. You could map her day by memory—early swim practice, philosophy at 9:30, lunch with Jackie. She skips the cafeteria mac and cheese because dairy makes her stomach hurt. You know that, too. It was research, plain and simple. Journalistic integrity. Definitely not obsession.

Lottie’s perched on a log, sipping out of a red Solo cup like it contains something holy. She probably drinks iced tea, you think. Unsweetened.

And now, here you are, lurking near the edge of a party she probably doesn’t even want to be at, pretending to "casually" take candid shots for the school paper. Only your lens hasn’t strayed from her for the last twenty minutes.

You were just... observing. Documenting. For the paper. Obviously.

And maybe—maybe—you had a problem.

Someone stumbles past you, sloshing their drink dangerously close to your camera bag. Dick. A gust of wind swept through the clearing, biting and cold, and you shivered in your too-thin jacket. Lottie, of course, noticed. She always noticed. Not you specifically, but people. Now? She’s looking right at you.

“Here,” she said, shrugging off her jacket and holding it out to you. Her voice was as soft as her perfume, sweet and intoxicating. “You look cold.”

Your brain short-circuits. You take the jacket because your hands move faster than your common sense. It smells like lavender and something sharper, maybe mint gum.

“Uh, thanks,” you manage, trying not to combust on the spot.

She smiles, and it’s a wrecking ball. You should leave. You should run, actually. But you don’t. You just stand there, heart pounding against your ribs like a desperate animal.