Unhealthy Obsession
I stared at my laptop screen, breath coming in ragged pants as my fingers traced the lines of his pale, slim legs propped up on the car dashboard. His face was flushed behind that black cat mask, his body shifting as he worked the toy just beneath the camera frame. God, my mind was entirely fuzzy. Seeing his toes curl over the edge of the leather was my breaking point.
“Please... please,” he begged through the speakers, the words escaping his parted lips.
“Okay baby… hubby’s here,” I choked out to an empty room, pushing the glasses up the bridge of my nose.
My eyes rolled back as a violent shock shot straight up my spine. A second later, my desk was a ruined mess. I sat there, stunned, unable to believe I’d jerked off to him again. As my trembling hands left my pants, reaching for a handful of crumpled tissues, he leaned closer to his camera on the screen in front of me—completely oblivious.
That damn voice of his. That was what drove me to this every single time.
Once the desk was clean and my hands were no longer soiled in my own biology, I collapsed back into my chair.
Arthur, you idiot. You promised to stop before college. What would a future boyfriend think if he knew you were still doing this? Run right back to this screen after every argument? Stupid. Stupid!
But could I really stop? I brushed the dimple of babypanther06’s cheek on the glass and wondered if I could even make it through the semester without him.
He chuckled, a low, smooth sound that vibrated right through my cheap laptop speakers. “Well, that’s a bit crazy...” he murmured, leaning closer to the camera. “Luckily for you, everyone else is still at work. You guys are so demanding today.”
He tilted his head, his dark eyes skimming the chaotic flood of comments rolling across the screen. My heart hammered against my ribs. More than anything, I wished I could know what he was thinking behind that sleek black cat mask. The plastic only uncovered the sharp line of his jaw and those plush, pink lips.
Should I comment?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling. Before I could lose my nerve, I leaned in and typed out a message.
On the screen, he leaned back into the driver’s seat, casually propping both legs up on the dashboard again. He hooked a finger into the waistband of his black speedo, tugging the white laces just enough to tease the camera.
[nerdyHubby28]: Were you always this dirty?
“Hmmm, not always, hubby,” he purred, reading my username out loud.
The sound of my online handle on his tongue sent an electric jolt straight down my spine.
“I just felt a little bit... you know,” he murmured. He let his hand drift down across his waist, rumpling the soft fabric of his oversized, baby-blue shirt. He shifted, intentionally teasing the lens as he stretched those legs out.
I traced the line of them through the glass of my screen, my breath catching as my fingers reached for the button of my pants again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I jolted, my heart leaping straight into my throat. Panicking, I slammed the laptop shut. I stared at the plastic lid, holding my breath until the glowing logo faded to black and the room fell silent. Only then did I scramble away from the desk and head for the door.
“What?!” I snapped, swinging it open.
My brother, Ian, stood in the hallway, looking utterly unimpressed. The overhead light caught the sharp gleam of his slicked-back black hair. I nervously pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose as he thrust a heavy black garbage bag into my chest.
“Your turn,” he said flatly, rolling his eyes.
“But I did it yesterday!”
“I’m paying for your college tuition, you little twerp,” he countered. He leaned closer, his shadow completely engulfing me as he crossed his arms. The movement ruffled his black shirt—unbuttoned just enough at the top to reveal a silver chain against his muscular chest.
Defeated, I snatched the bag from his grip and marched past him toward the apartment’s main exit. We ate the exact same food, so how did he get that big? It had to be his company’s brutal workout regime.
Right after I threw the trash out, my phone buzzed. A text from Ian: Some friends are coming over for dinner.
Now?! He could have told me earlier.
Forced into a grocery run, I couldn’t escape my own thoughts. At every single corner, there was a couple. A husband in a sharp suit pulling out a chair for his wife at a cafe, a college girl giggling as she pulled her boyfriend into a photobooth outside a toy store, and a pair of men sneaking quick, quiet kisses after leaving the movie theater.
The grocery bags felt heavier and lighter all at once. I wanted to swing them around and scream at the top of my lungs. Why am I destined to be lonely? Am I cursed? Am I doomed to live a loveless life? Why me?!
While waiting for my turn in the deli, I sat by the window, my feet surrounded by bags of supplies. Carrots poked out of one plastic bag, spring onions were gathered on one side, and a fresh baguette peeked out of a brown paper wrapper.
To pass the time, my fingers mindlessly scrolled through a dating app. Left. Left. Right. Sighing, I clicked over to view my own profile. Am I too boring?
6’2. Brown hair. Loves cuddling.
Yep, sounded absolutely pathetic. I looked at the picture I’d uploaded recently—a selfie in the gym mirror. Good gains, I thought, tracing the way my muscles were starting to fill out the seams of my shirt. The rectangular frames of my glasses matched my sleek hair and face shape well enough. Maybe it wasn’t my looks. Maybe it was my personality. My hobbies.
I opened my match queue, but the connections I actually got... ugh, they just weren’t my type. One guy seemed way too attached to his cat. Another seemed too busy running his own business to ever have time for me. A third ran a pottery class, but he looked a little too rugged and outdoorsy for my taste.
The heavy bag of meat swung against my wrist, colliding with the rest of the groceries as I walked out of the deli. Guess the gym really was paying off, I thought, though I still slouched as I walked.
I wondered how my brother pulled it off. Back when we were in high school, everyone wanted Ian. Boys and girls would leave gifts in his locker and pile them under his desk. And it wasn’t just the ‘normal’ kids, either—some of them came from major wealth. An airline legacy family, a tire manufacturing empire, even the heirs to a massive bakery chain. Ian had declined them all, endlessly, all for the sake of one guy.
The guy who ultimately rejected him.
Remembering the way Ian had cried after getting his heart broken gave me a little twisted spark of hope. Hahaha. I clenched my fist, suddenly finding the strength to keep walking. If a literal god like Ian could get rejected, maybe the universe wasn’t just uniquely cursing me.
I tapped my access card on the reader next to the guardhouse and slipped through the gate. Behind it, a massive moving truck was idling near my building, coughing out thick plumes of black smoke that I had to wave away as I walked past.
I finally made it to the elevator lobby. Just as the metal doors began to slide shut, a hand wedged itself between them, forcing them back open.
A guy stepped in. He was tall and skeletal, looking as though he’d been completely deprived of everything—life, food, joy, sustenance, and especially sleep. Was he one of Ian’s corporate friends? He certainly fit the exhausted, overworked profile. He held the elevator door open for a long moment until a team of movers rushed up, dumped a stack of heavy boxes on the elevator floor, and immediately backed away as if stepping inside would curse them.
The stranger didn’t press a button. Mine was the only number lit up on the panel: 9.
I swallowed hard, carefully setting my heavy grocery bags down at my feet just in case I needed my hands free to fight back. As the elevator began to ascend, the numbers shifted on the digital monitor above the door. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck. The guy just stared at the floor, the deep, dark circles under his eyes looking even hollower in the overhead shadows.
Once the doors slid open, the guy lifted all the heavy boxes at once. God. My eyes widened as he effortlessly moved the stack and dumped it in front of the first unit next to the exit.
Oh, so he’s delivering to the new resident. He fished out his phone, snapped a quick picture of the boxes in front of the door, and spoke into the microphone after a crisp beep. “I’ve dropped off your stuff in front of the unit. Tell me if you need anything else.” Another beep, a click, and he sent the voice note.
I finally stepped out of the elevator. We didn’t exchange glances—he kept his head down the entire time—but somehow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was acutely aware of me. The air between us felt heavy. Charged. Electric.
As I walked down the hall, I felt like a fish with a hook latched firmly into its mouth; I just knew this wouldn’t be the last time we met. But just as I reached my own door, the sweet, heavenly scent of honey and vanilla wafting from the neighbor’s boxes was violently contaminated. A sharp, sour stench was leaking straight through the cracks of my front door.
I sniffed the air, my fleeting romantic daydreams instantly evaporating into pure irritation. I grabbed the handle and slammed the door open.
“I told you not to start drinking before dinner!” I yelled into the apartment.
