He Sees You When You’re Sleeping: A Dark and Steamy Holiday Romance of Obsession and Secrets – Where Desire Meets Danger in the Heart of NYC
He Sees You When You’re Sleeping: Chapter 11

How many days is normal to wait for a text after a date? Not that Jack and I had an actual date. It was just a coincidental meet up. But he said he’d text so I stare at my phone for what feels like the hundredth time today, willing it to light up with a notification.

It wasn’t a real date, I keep reminding myself. Just a chance encounter. But the way his eyes had crinkled when he smiled, how attentively he’d listened to every word I said . . . it had felt like more.

I sigh and toss my phone onto the desk, determined to stop obsessing. But as I turn away, a faint buzz makes my heart leap. I snatch it up, fumbling in my haste.

It’s just an Insta notification. Disappointment crashes over me.

“Get a grip,” I mutter to myself.

Deciding to obsess over something else, I decide to look at my views and engagement on my most recent post for Moth to the Flame. I wasn’t feeling it while filming, and I have a pretty good feeling that my video is going to prove to me that my viewers felt the same way.

As I scroll through the analytics, my suspicions are confirmed. The view count is dismal, likes are sparse, and the comments are . . . well, there aren’t many. I groan, slumping back in my chair. This is exactly what I needed—another blow to my already fragile ego. If I want to remain the brand ambassador for Moth to the Flame Designs, I’m going to have to get my shit together. I need this job if I want to remain in this house. This is not even up for debate. I need to pull myself together and focus on creating content that will resonate with my audience.

In desperate need of a pick-me-up, I close out that app and move to the one I actually love being part of. I try really hard not to log into Dark Secrets until the late hours as my reward for staying focused and on task, but right now, I need the dopamine hit from the comments I know are waiting for me from my live last night.

This is my true escape, my secret world where I can be anyone I want. The persona I’ve crafted here is confident, mysterious, and alluring—everything I wish I could be in real life.

The notification icon is lit up, and I tap it eagerly. Comments and messages flood in, each one a little burst of validation. You were amazing last night! Can’t wait for your next stream! You’re the highlight of my evening!

I bask in the praise, feeling my mood lift with each message. Here, in this digital realm, I’m adored. Desired. Important. It’s potent, and for a moment, I forget about my real-world troubles—the lackluster content, spending another holiday without my parents, living in their house which is far above my means, and the lingering disappointment of Jack’s silence, wondering if I read more into our hot chocolate date—not date—than he did.

But as I scroll through the comments, one freezes me off guard.

“I loved how you finally showed more of your face. I wish you had shown even more.”

Wait! What?

I pull up my replay to see for myself. Panic sets in. My heart races as I frantically scan through the video, praying it’s a misunderstanding. But there it is—a moment where the camera slipped, and the lighting is just right, revealing more of my features than I ever intended. It’s only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity as I watch my carefully crafted anonymity crumble.

I slam my laptop shut, breathing heavily. This can’t be happening. My mind whirls with potential consequences. What if someone recognizes me? What if this gets back to Moth to the Flame, to the brand I represent? I signed a morality clause! No way does masturbating with a dildo on a live stream classify as moral. Fuck me. Fuck me and not in the fun dildo fuck me kind of way.

The life I’ve built could come crashing down around me.

What will Moth to the Flame do if they know that rather than promoting their jewelry next to gingerbread and mistletoe, I’m instead using their delicate chains and pendants as sensual props in my late-night streams? The thought makes me nauseous. I’ve worked so hard to keep these two worlds separate, and now they’re threatening to collide in the most catastrophic way possible.

I know better than this. I’ve always been so careful. But Jack . . . he got me so . . . fuck . . .

With trembling fingers, I reopen the laptop and start damage control. I delete the video, hoping it hasn’t been screen-recorded or shared elsewhere. But the internet is forever, and I know deep down that I can’t undo what’s been done.

My stomach grumbles and I’m not sure if it’s from fear or hunger, but since I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I’ve been cooped up inside all day working, I decide to venture out for some food . . . and a stiff cocktail. Maybe a change of scenery will help clear my head and give me some perspective on this mess.

I grab my coat and keys, hurrying out the door before I can change my mind. The crisp evening air hits my face, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. I take a look around and I’m struck by how quiet the neighborhood is.

Almost too quiet.

And I get this eerie feeling that eyes are on me.

I shake off the paranoia, chalking it up to my frayed nerves. Still, I glance over my shoulder as I walk down the sidewalk. The streetlights cast long shadows, and every rustle of leaves makes me jump.

The local pub is a few blocks away, and I set off at a brisk pace, my mind still racing.

As I walk down the street, I try to take in the holiday decorations adorning the storefronts and lamp posts. Twinkling lights and garlands of evergreen should lift my spirits, but they only serve as a stark reminder of how alone I feel.

Alone and lost.

As I push open the heavy wooden door of The Rusty Nail, the familiar scent of beer and fried food greet me. It’s busy for a weeknight, the low hum of conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. I make my way to the bar, squeezing into an empty spot.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks, wiping down the counter.

“Whiskey, neat,” I reply, surprising myself. I’m usually more of a fruity cocktail kind of girl, but I can’t exactly order a pina colada and sound cool, and tonight calls for something stronger.

The bartender nods and pours me a generous measure. I take a sip, wincing at the burn. As the warmth spreads through my chest and kills every single germ I may or may not have had in my body, I scan the room, half-hoping to see a familiar face and half-dreading it.

No one is here. Just me. Alone.

But that is when the door opens and snow comes flurrying in, followed by a tall figure in a dark coat. My heart skips a beat as I recognize the silhouette. Jack.

He stamps his feet, shaking off the snow, and looks around the pub. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I’m frozen. Should I wave? Pretend I didn’t see him? Before I can decide, he’s making his way over to me, a hesitant smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says, sliding onto the stool next to me. “Fancy meeting you here.”

I try to keep my voice casual, despite the butterflies in my stomach. “I uh . . . do you come here often?”

He shakes his head, signaling the bartender. “I’d like to tell you this was a coincidence,” he begins with a smile, “but I actually saw you walking in here from across the street,” Jack admits, a sheepish grin on his face. “I was on my way to ice Mr. Haven’s walkway. I hope you don’t mind me joining you.”

My heart races at his confession. He saw me and decided to follow? Part of me is thrilled, but another part is wary. After all, I barely know this man.

“No, I don’t mind,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s nice to see a familiar face.”

Jack orders a beer and turns to face me fully. “Cheers,” he says as he raises the glass.

I clink my glass against his, the whiskey sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Cheers,” I echo, taking another sip. The alcohol is already starting to dull the edges of my anxiety, but Jack’s presence brings a new kind of nervousness.

“So,” he says, his eyes gleaming in the dim pub light, “what brings you out on a night like this? Escaping the holiday madness?”

I laugh, but it comes out more like a nervous titter. “Something like that,” I reply vaguely. How can I explain that I’m here drowning my sorrows over a potential career-ending mistake in my secret online life? “Needed a change of scenery, I guess. What about you? Isn’t it a bit late to be shoveling snow?” I pause and decide to ask something that has been bothering me ever since I came home and saw the snow removed again. “You didn’t by chance shovel my walkway yesterday?”

Jack’s eyes widen slightly as he lowers his beer. “Ah, you caught me,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “I hope you don’t mind. I was already helping Mr. Haven and decided to do yours too.”

My heart flutters at his thoughtfulness. “That was really sweet of you,” I say, feeling a warmth that isn’t just from the whiskey. “Thank you.”

He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “It was nothing, really. I like helping out where I can.”

There’s a pause as we both sip our drinks, the noise of the pub swirling around us. I’m hyperaware of how close we’re sitting, our knees almost touching.

“Funny story,” I add. “When I came home yesterday and saw it done, I started to really feel I may have a stalker. A snow-shoveling stalker.”