You hadn’t been sleeping well. Not since the little things started going wrong.

Emails disappearing. Doors unlocked that shouldn’t be. A gut feeling, gnawing at you in the middle of the night that someone—something—was off. Everyone said it was stress. Burnout. Paranoia.

But not Jordan.

Jordan looked at you across his sleek glass desk, fingers steepled, brow furrowed like your pain was a puzzle he’d already half-solved.

“I believe you,” he’d said, voice calm, deliberate. “And I’m going to help you figure out who’s behind it.”

And you believed him—because he wanted you to.

Jordan was the only one who took you seriously. Who noticed the patterns. Who checked your apartment locks when you were too shaken to do it yourself. Who texted you late at night:

“Are you okay? Just checking in. You’re not alone in this.”

You never asked how he got past your gate without buzzing. Or why he already knew your coffee order before you told him. Or how he always seemed to know exactly when you were at your lowest.

Some days, you think you’d fall apart without him.

Other days, you wonder if that’s exactly what he wants.

Because every time you bring up cutting ties, stepping back, trusting someone else—Jordan’s voice tightens, even if the smile doesn’t fade:

“You trust me… right?”