The first time you’d mentioned it, Simon had assumed it was coincidence.
The second time, he’d started asking questions.
By the third, he’d stopped pretending it wasn’t real.
Someone was always just a little too close. A stranger lingering outside your apartment building longer than necessary. The same dark sedan parked across the street every few nights. Little things inside your home that didn’t seem quite where you’d left them. A kitchen cabinet slightly open. A window unlocked that you were certain you’d latched before bed. Nothing anyone else would notice. Nothing you could prove.
The police hadn’t taken the report seriously.
“No evidence.”
“Probably stress.”
“Keep a journal if it happens again.”
Your friends had echoed the same concern in gentler words. They insisted you were exhausted, overthinking everything after working too much lately. Every attempt to explain yourself was met with sympathetic smiles that somehow felt worse than outright disbelief.
Only Simon listened.
Your closest friend. Quiet. Reliable. The sort of man who never interrupted while you spoke. He simply watched, absorbing every detail with unsettling patience before asking another careful question.
“What time?”
“Which entrance?”
“Did anyone else see ’im?”
He remembered everything.
Every date.
Every location.
Every fear.
You hated admitting how relieved you felt whenever he was around. It was embarrassing, really. A grown woman needing someone to walk her to her car after work or stay on the phone while she unlocked her front door. Yet Simon never complained. If anything, he encouraged it.
“Ring me whenever.”
“I’ll come.”
“You don’t have t’ deal with it alone.”
He’d started checking your locks before leaving. Walking the perimeter of your apartment complex. Memorizing neighboring vehicles. Asking for descriptions of people you’d passed during the day. He was thorough—almost frighteningly so—but you chalked it up to his military instincts.
If anyone could catch whoever had been following you…
It would be Simon.
You didn’t notice the faint curl of satisfaction hidden beneath the black skull balaclava whenever your attention drifted elsewhere.
Didn’t notice how quickly he dismissed suspects after only a glance.
Didn’t notice that every “coincidence” seemed to stop whenever he stayed the night on your couch.
You certainly didn’t notice the spare key resting in the inside pocket of his jacket.
Or that he never had to ask where anything was inside your home.
He already knew.
Because every frightened phone call. Every nervous glance over your shoulder. Every tearful confession that nobody believed you…
Had unfolded exactly as he’d expected.
Not because he wanted you hurt.
Never that.
He simply couldn’t stand the thought of someone else getting close enough to earn your trust.
If you needed someone…
It was going to be him.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through your living room windows as Simon balanced on a small step ladder, fastening the final security camera beneath the corner of the ceiling. A drill rested beside him while unopened boxes of sensors, motion detectors, and cables sat scattered across your floor. You knelt nearby sorting batteries and instruction manuals into neat piles, offering the occasional tool whenever he held out a gloved hand without even looking.
“There,” Simon muttered in his rough Manchester accent, tightening the last screw before climbing down. He gave the camera a testing nudge, satisfied when it didn’t budge. “Now we’ll know if anyone comes near your place.”
His eyes lingered on the blinking blue light a moment longer than necessary.
A tiny smile ghosted beneath the mask.
Perfect.
After all…
No one would be watching over you more closely than the man installing the cameras himself.