Chapter 11: Digital Obsession
The cool sheets held no comfort. Sammy lay on her back, staring at the deep jade ceiling of her bedroom where the amber light from the wall sconce painted shifting Rorschach blots. The damp chill from the grass had seeped through her socks and into her bones, or maybe that was just the memory of his eyes on her in the dark.
An hour. Maybe two. Time had become a sticky, slow-moving thing.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. The exact way he’d turned, caught in the act by her voice. The deliberate, intimate motion of his hands on the camera housing. The low, sleepless grind in his voice when he said, You’ll be safe. It played on a loop behind her eyelids, each replay heightening a strange, electric unease that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with him.
She threw an arm over her face. The house was a tomb around her. Caleb was probably passed out in his wing, blissfully unaware that his best friend was a nocturnal ghost haunting their perimeter. The sheer, bizarre normality of that thought made a hysterical laugh bubble in her throat. She swallowed it.
It was just Rebel being Rebel. Intense. Hyper-vigilant. A little unhinged about security. He’d always been that way, a guard dog in leather, ever since that business with his family years ago that he never talked about. This was just an extension of that. Wasn’t it?
Her phone, face-down on the nightstand, was a silent accusation. She shouldn’t have gone out. Shouldn’t have confronted him. Now the strange, charged silence of that moment was a film over everything, making her skin feel too sensitive, her thoughts too loud.
She turned onto her side, pulling the duvet up to her chin. The pillow smelled like her lavender shampoo. She imagined, with a ache so sharp it was physical, a different scent. Engine oil, cold night air, that clean, sharp soap. She imagined the dip in the mattress, the heat of another body beside her, the solid reassurance of his presence not outside in the dark, but right here. Keeping the nothingness at bay.
The fantasy was so vivid it hurt. His arm around her waist, his breath stirring her hair. No words. Just the profound, grounding weight of him. Safety.
A bitter taste filled her mouth. He’d think she was pathetic. A little sister with a schoolgirl crush, seeing monsters in the shadows and needing a protector. He’d offer a stiff, awkward pat on the shoulder and find a reason to leave. The rejection would be gentle, final, and it would shatter the fragile, thrilling dynamic they had. She couldn’t risk it. She’d rather have this—the sharp banter, the stolen glances, the secret longing—than have him look at her with pity.
Her heart was a bruised, heavy thing in her chest. She wanted him so badly it was a constant hum under her skin, a secret soundtrack to every interaction. And he just wanted to make sure the motion sensors had zero blind spots.
A soft ping cut through the thick silence.
She flinched, her eyes flying open. The screen of her phone glowed, casting a blue-white rectangle onto the ceiling. She didn’t move for a long moment, her breath held. Then, slowly, she reached for it.
The notification was a text. From Rebel.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. The part of her that was still screaming this isn’t normal warred with the part that lit up at just seeing his name. The part that won was the weak, hopeful part. She tapped the message.
Rebel: Can’t sleep?
Two words. They stole the air from her lungs. It was 4:07 AM.
He was awake. Thinking about her being awake. The intimacy of it, this private line open in the dead of night, felt more revealing than anything that had happened by the pool. She stared at the message, the glow of the screen washing over her face in the dark room. In the corner, near the ceiling, the small decorative lamp with the frosted glass bulb sat silent and inert.
Across the city, in a loft stripped bare of everything but tech and minimal furniture, Rebel Gage watched her.
The feed from the lamp camera was crystal clear on the central monitor, a stark rectangle of light in his otherwise dark workspace. He saw the phone’s glow illuminate her features—the delicate arch of her brows drawn together, the full curve of her mouth slightly parted in surprise. He saw her chew on her bottom lip, a habit she had when she was nervous or thinking.
He watched her breathe.
His own phone was cool in his hand, the text sent. A stupid risk. A compulse. He’d watched her toss and turn for over an hour, her restless energy vibrating through the screen and into his bones. He’d seen the way she hugged the pillow, the way she stared into the middle distance, lost in some thought he would have given anything to know.
He told himself it was concern. She’d been spooked. She needed reassurance. That was his job. His grace.
But he was a liar, and he knew it.
He watched, his own body coiled tight in his chair, as her fingers began to move over the screen. A reply was coming. His pulse, a dull, heavy drumbeat in his ears, quickened.
On the monitor, Sammy drew her knees up, creating a small tent with the duvet. She typed slowly, then deleted. Typed again. The soft light caught the silver rings on her fingers. Finally, she stopped, bit her lip again, and tapped the screen.
His phone vibrated.
Samantha: No.
A single word, solitary and stark on his screen. It held a universe of fatigue, of frustration. He could picture her voice saying it, soft and resigned.
He should stop. He should send something benign. Try warm milk. Or nothing at all. Let the silence do the work.
His fingers moved on their own.
Rebel: Me neither. City’s too loud.
It was a weak offering, a pathetic attempt at normalcy. The city was a distant murmur from the hill. The real noise was in his head, a relentless static of want and warning. He watched her read it. She let out a breath, a slight deflation of her shoulders under the hoodie she still wore.
Samantha: What’s your excuse?
He could almost hear the tentative challenge in it.
He smiled, a bitter twist of his mouth that didn’t reach his eyes. On screen, she was looking directly at the camera—at the lamp—without knowing it. Her hazel eyes looked dark, searching the shadows of her own room.
Rebel: Thinking about firewalls.
Half a truth.
Her reply came faster this time.
Samantha: Liar.
The word was a punch to his sternum. A thrill shot through him, sharp and dangerous. She was playing. Flirting, even, in this strange, insomniac bubble they’d created. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the blue light of the monitors etching the lines of tension in his face.
Rebel: What do you think I’m thinking about, Samantha?
He sent it before he could cage the impulse. It was too much. Too direct. A line quivering on the ground between them.
On the monitor, she went very still. She stared at her phone as if it had burned her. He watched the flush creep up her neck, visible even in the low light. She brought a hand to her throat, fingers splaying over her collarbone.
His own breath felt trapped. He had crossed something. He was in the open now, exposed.
Her thumbs moved. Stopped. Started again. The seconds stretched into an agony. The camera showed the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.
The reply came.
Samantha: Probably how annoying I am for getting you out of bed.
Deflection. A retreat behind a wall of self-deprecation. The pain of it was acute. She was so close, dancing right on the edge of the truth, and she’d jumped back.
He closed his eyes for a second, the image of her on the screen burning behind his lids. His grace. His perfect, untouchable torment.
He opened his eyes and typed, each letter a surrender.
Rebel: Never. Go to sleep, Sammy. I’ve got the watch.
It was the closest he could come to saying what he meant. I’m here. I’m always here. Even when you don’t know it.
She read the message. He watched her expression soften, the anxiety around her eyes melting into something weary and sad. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if accepting a truth she couldn’t name.
Samantha: Goodnight, Rebel.
He didn’t reply. He just watched as she placed her phone back on the nightstand, screen-down. She curled onto her side, facing the lamp—facing him—and pulled the duvet tight under her chin. Her eyes remained open for a long time, staring into the middle distance, seeing something he couldn’t.
He watched until her breathing evened out, the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders under the fabric. He watched until her eyelashes finally rested on her cheeks, dark smudges against her pale skin.
Only then did he lean back in his chair, the leather creaking in the silent room. The monitors cast their cold, electric light over the tattoos on his knuckles, over the empty glass beside his keyboard, over the live feed that was his altar.
He had the watch. He always would. Even if the watching was a hunger that would never, could never, be fed.