The WishList Stalker•

My keys are between my teeth, my left shoulder is screaming, and one of these grocery bags is absolutely about to give up on life.

"Don't you dare," I mutter around the brass, which is not helpful but feels necessary. The plastic handles are cutting into my fingers, and Max is doing his frantic Frenchie shuffle at the end of his leash like he's never encountered stairs before in his four years of existence.

Third floor of my converted brick building, ten feet from sanctuary, and I'm losing the battle against gravity and poor life choices.

The dying bag makes a sharp, ripping sound.

"Come on, please, not the oat milk," I whisper, trying to shift my knee up for support without dropping Max's leash or my dignity.

The elevator dings behind me.

I don't have to turn around to know who it is. Those are Nolan Harte's footsteps—measured, deliberate, the kind that belong to someone who notices everything and never rushes.

"Need a hand there, Jenny?"

Detective Nolan Harte, first-floor neighbor, owner of the broadest shoulders in Seattle, and the man who's been politely ignoring our fourteen months of elevator chemistry with the dedication of a saint.

I spit my keys into my palm. "I got way too ambitious at the farmer's market, then hit Trader Joe's. Total rookie mistake."

He stops in front of me, dark jeans and a gray henley that really has no business being as distracting as it is. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Yeah? You good if I take some of these?"

This is the thing about Nolan—he always asks. Never assumes, never just reaches. Always waits for permission, and it's such a small thing that actually means everything.

"Please, before my circulation gives out entirely."

He takes three bags like they weigh nothing, and Max immediately abandons me for ear scratches and worship of his new favorite human.

"Traitor," I tell the dog.

A low rumble vibrates in Nolan's chest. "He's got good instincts."

We climb the remaining stairs in comfortable silence. Fourteen months of building proximity creates its own language. He knows I take my coffee embarrassingly sweet, I know he keeps weird cop hours, and we both pretend the walls aren't thin enough to hear everything happening in 3B.

At my door, he hands back the bags. "Thanks," I breathe, fitting my key into the lock that always sticks just a little.

"Sure." He's already half-turned toward the stairs when he pauses. "You get that package? There was something by your door earlier."

I look down. A small square box sits against the wall—kraft paper, clean typed label, no return address.

"Probably some PR stuff," I say, because lifestyle product reviewers get random boxes constantly. "Thanks for moving it."

He gives a short nod. "Have a good night, Jenny."

Inside my apartment, the familiar scent hits me—coffee grounds, vanilla diffuser, that faint Max smell that means home. I drop the bags on my butcher-block island and survey my cozy fortress. Exposed brick walls, industrial windows, fairy lights strung up by someone who genuinely believes ambiance can heal grief. After Mom died four years ago, I retreated into making this space perfect. That coping mechanism accidentally became a career, but the core remains: this apartment is my sanctuary.

I unpack groceries first because I'm a person who puts things away before doing anything else, which Jade calls my most exhausting quality and I call basic household management. Max gets dinner, I get the good olive oil into the cabinet, and then I grab the mysterious box.

No branding, no return address. Just my name in clean, minimalist font.

I slice through the tape with my letter opener and pull back the cardboard flaps.

Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, is a candle.

Not just any candle. *The* candle. Heavy amber glass, hand-poured, the one I've been obsessing over for weeks. Hearthside by Artisan & Co. Notes of woodsmoke, dried oranges, and something I can only describe as the feeling of being warm.

Forty-eight dollars. I've added it to my Cozy Dreams list approximately twelve times and chickened out every single one.

I have never purchased this candle.

My heart does a weird, hard skip. There's a small cream envelope tucked in the tissue paper, my name in simple block letters.

I open it with fingers that feel suddenly clumsy.

The card inside is thick, expensive. Four lines in neat black ink:

*You kept coming back to this one.*

*Thought you should finally have it.*

No signature. No brand mention. Just that.

The apartment goes very quiet around me. Even Max stops crunching his kibble.

This isn't marketing copy. Brands don't write like this. They write about "partnerships" and "synergy" and "we think you'll love." This is personal. This is someone who knows me.

*You kept coming back to this one.*

That's exactly how I think about it. The exact phrase that runs through my head when I scroll past it for the hundredth time.

"Okay," I whisper, the word sounding entirely too thin in the quiet room. "That's... specific."

My reviewer brain kicks in before my panic can. I set the note down and pick up the box. I run my thumb over the kraft paper. It's heavy duty. The tape was applied with a dispenser, perfectly straight, no fingerprints smudged on the glossy side. I lift it to my nose. Beneath the smell of the cardboard, there's a faint, clean scent. Laundry detergent. Unscented, maybe, or something really expensive and subtle.

Who sends a forty-eight-dollar artisan candle in a box that smells like a high-end dry cleaner?

My hands are shaking now. I need to hear a human voice. I need to hear Jade's voice and just talk about literally anything else until my brain stops short-circuiting.

I pull out my phone and dial her. It rings three times before she picks up.

"Tell me you're calling to confirm brunch," Jade answers, the loud hum of a blow dryer buzzing in the background.

"We're still on for tomorrow," I say, forcing my voice to stay completely level. "Sugar & Steam. Ten a.m."

"Cool. Wait." The blow dryer clicks off. "You sound off. Everything good?"

"I'm fine. Just... carrying a lot of groceries. Out of breath."

"You sound breathless, not tired. Which, okay, if you're trying to bail because it's raining, just say so."

"I'm not bailing. I just need to see a friendly face. For real though, just be there."

"Alright. But you're buying the mimosas. You sound like you need them."

"Deal."

I hang up before she can ask any more questions. I can't tell her. Not yet. If I say it out loud, it makes it real, and right now I'm still holding onto the desperate hope that this is just a massive, incredibly weird coincidence.

I set the phone on the counter and stare at the box.

I should throw it away. The whole thing feels wrong in a way I can't name yet, like a sound at the edge of hearing. But I need to prove to myself that it's just a normal candle. I need to prove that it's just wax and wick and nothing more.

Instead, I find my matches and light it.

The scent of woodsmoke and dried oranges fills my apartment, exactly as perfect as I knew it would be. I sink into my couch with Max pressed against my thigh, the note still in my hand.

I tell myself it's probably nothing. Algorithms are creepy now. Data tracking is sophisticated. Someone pulled my browsing history and made a lucky guess.

I tell myself that.

But I don't put the note in the trash. I slide it into my end table drawer, under the takeout menus and spare batteries, and I leave it there.

The candle burns, my apartment smells like being home, and outside Seattle settles into its particular gray-blue quiet. Everything is warm and mine and exactly what I built it to be.

I just can't shake the feeling that someone else knows exactly what that looks like.