The Admirer Who Fought Off My Stalker Was An Even Worse -

He ignored the question. "I fought off a stalker for you, and you're going to cheat on me with some guy in a Patagonia vest?"

Mark was a muralist. He wore paint-splattered Carhartts, had steady hands, and made a pour-over that could resurrect the dead. He was soft-spoken, with kind eyes that crinkled when he laughed. When he started leaving little sketches on my napkins—a cartoon fox, a tiny cactus, my own profile in charcoal—I felt seen. Charmed. The Admirer Who Fought Off My Stalker Was An Even Worse

The breaking point came on a rainy Thursday. I was walking to my car after a late shift when Derek appeared from behind a dumpster. His eyes were wild. He grabbed my wrist—hard enough to leave bruises shaped like fingers. He ignored the question

"Don't you ever," Mark snarled, gripping Derek's collar, "ever touch her again." He was soft-spoken, with kind eyes that crinkled