───𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩! 𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝘼𝙣𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝘿𝙖𝙣𝙞. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙧.
Paring: g!p Daniela Avanzini x Female Reader (use of y/n)
ˢᵘᵐᵐᵃʳʸ → Under the alias of "Andrea", Daniela begins to weave an invisible web around you. Using your unprotected social media accounts, she tracks your entire life, culminating in a tense "accidental" run-in at a local bookstore. Daniela's obsession quickly escalates on a Friday night when she secretly follows you to a nightclub and ends up watching you go home with some random guy; hidden on the freezing fire escape of your building, Daniela gives in to the lust and mind games as she watches you through the window.
ᵗᵃᵍˢ → "Dark romance", Psychological thriller, Stalker Daniela Avanzini, G!p Daniela Avanzini, Joe Goldberg-style Daniela Avanzini, Stalking, Obsession, Toxic Bosses, Mdni, Masturbation while watching, Manipulation, Angst, Lies, Possessive behavior, Sexual Tension.
The Montreal powder snow slipped past your ankles, but your mind was way too busy calculating how many seconds it took for the specialty coffee from Café Olympique to freeze over under the icy Canadian wind.
Your life could be summed up by just that: being the invisible gear of a massive corporation. "Take this to finance," "Get the almond croissant for the marketing director," "Make sure the performance report is printed before ten." You were the errand girl, the one running back and forth on a salary that barely let you pay for the heating in your one-bedroom apartment, praying that your speed would determine your worth to the company.
That Tuesday, the most chaotic day of the week, you were dodging pedestrians on the sidewalk while holding a cardboard tray with three steaming coffees in your right hand. In your left, you held the corporate iPad, trying to read a PDF out of the corner of your eye about the quarterly merger that your boss had demanded you have ready "five minutes ago."
You didn't look at the avenue.
You didn't check the oncoming lane of the crosswalk.
You had this stupid, naive theory that when people saw someone carrying half a coffee shop and a screen, they would just move out of the way out of common courtesy.
The impact wasn't violent, but it was sudden enough to throw you off balance. Your shoulder bumped against a tall, firm silhouette. The iPad slipped from your frozen fingers, flying through the air before landing with a dull, painful thud right on the white stripe of the crosswalk, just inches away from the tire of a taxi that was already starting to roll forward. By some miracle of fate, your right wrist locked up, saving the coffees and croissants from absolute disaster.
—Shit —you hissed, feeling the cold of the pavement seeping through your gloves as you immediately crouched down to grab the device.
A few inches away from you, Daniela Avanzini stopped dead in her tracks.
To Daniela, the world had become a gray, monotonous canvas ever since she stepped foot in Canada four months ago. She had run away from the chaos, from the mistakes of the past, from a relationship that had escalated to... complicated levels. Illegal, to be exact. She had sworn to herself that in this new country, she would be a blank page. A normal girl, just another face in the crowd, far away from her obsessions, far away from that toxic need to save someone, to control, to possess.
But the second your shoulder hit hers, the ticking clock of her world seemed to stop.
There was no background music, but in Daniela's mind, a blinding, clean light completely wrapped around you. She saw you down there, kneeling on the cold asphalt, your cheeks flushed from the winter wind and an expression of pure frustration that disarmed her instantly. A beautiful girl, with her hair messed up from the rush and her eyes filled with that mundane, delicious rage of someone who has way too much to do and too little time to breathe.
Why hadn't she dodged you? She asked herself. Deep down, she knew the answer: because you were meant to crash into her.
—Did you have to walk straight into me? Move aside —you snapped without looking at her, your tone sharp and dripping with an impatience that anyone else would have found incredibly rude.
Daniela's skin tingled. She had heard that tone of voice thousands of times from shallow, ungrateful people, but coming from you... from you it sounded like the most perfect melody she had heard in months. It was a challenge. You were real. You weren't a shadow from her past; you were a loud, chaotic present that had just shattered her monotony.
—My bad. I was distracted too —Daniela replied.
Her voice, raspy, low, and with that subtle foreign accent that gave away she wasn't from around here, forced you to look up for a microsecond. In front of you stood a woman with jet-black hair messy from the wind, intense hazel eyes, and a cryptic half-smile that made your blood run cold.
But you didn't have time for mysteries. The pedestrian light had started flashing red, a chorus of angry horns began to echo down the avenue, and idiot drivers were already blocking the path for both of you in the middle of the street.
You jumped to your feet, sweeping her from head to toe with a quick, cold glance. You didn't reply to her apology. You just rushed right past her, pressing the iPad against your chest and silently praying that the screen wasn't cracked and that the damn company device was still working.
Daniela stood frozen on the opposite sidewalk, watching your silhouette fade into the sea of dark coats entering the massive glass-and-steel office building at the end of the block.
She was ready to turn around and head back to her empty apartment, back to her routine of trying to feel nothing, when something on the ground caught her eye. Right where you had fallen, half-hidden by a thin layer of dirty snow, was a small business card with gold edges and very expensive, textured cardstock.
Daniela crouched down and picked it up gently, as if it were a priceless piece of art.
She inspected it thoroughly. There was no name written on it. No personal phone number, no direct email. Nothing that would make things easy for her. Just the elegant, understated logo of the multinational investment firm you worked for, located just two blocks away.
She crossed the street slowly, playing with the cardboard rectangle between her long fingers, tracing the edges with the pad of her thumb while a smile formed on her face.
She had spent four months in this country trying to convince herself that she could be normal. But as she stared at the office building where you had hidden, she felt that familiar, addictive heat light up in her chest again. That rush of adrenaline telling her that you were in trouble, that your corporate life was a prison, and that sooner or later, you were gonna need someone to save you.
An angel had literally fallen at her feet to drag her out of her fake monotony. And Daniela wasn't about to pass up the chance to get to know you better.
Daniela Avanzini was back in the game.
Over the next two weeks, your life went on as usual, completely oblivious to the fact that you were no longer alone in the crowd.
For you, the days were a blur of 6:00 AM alarms, cups of reheated coffee, and the constant pressure to please bosses who barely remembered your name. You felt like a ghost. But to Daniela, you had become the only bright spot in the entire city.
It didn't take much for her to find you. In the digital age, privacy is an illusion that people willingly give away. Daniela only had to stand in your company's building lobby the next day, holding a paper cup and wearing a long, dark wool coat that made her blend right in with the executives. She saw you sprint past at 8:45, your cheeks red from the cold, carrying two heavy folders.
There you are, she thought, watching you from a distance.
Damn, you worked way too hard. You bust your ass for people who don't even look you in the eye when you hand them their reports.
But hey, don't worry... she already found you.
With the company logo and your clock-in schedule, the rest was child's play for her meticulous mind. A quick search on LinkedIn to pin down the names of the assistants on the 14th floor, a data cross-check with Instagram, and voilà: (y/n).
Daniela spent entire nights in the dim light of her new apartment, her laptop screen illuminating her focused face as she picked apart your digital life. She analyzed your old photos, your posts complaining about the traffic on the orange metro line, your rare moments of downtime at a small used bookstore in Mile End.
You have zero filter, Daniela thought, sliding her finger across her phone screen, examining a photo of you from a year ago.
She pointed out the most obvious thing: you left your life so exposed to danger, you followed more people than followed you back. You shared your favorite spots almost all the time... as if anyone actually cared.
You made the job way easier for her than she thought.
But that was the problem: anyone could cross paths with you with bad intentions, stalk you, and... do something bad to you.
Lucky for you, she was the one who saw you first. She was gonna look out for you.
The setup for the reunion required precision. She couldn't look like a stalker; it had to look like fate. The universe conspiring to bring you guys back together.
On a Friday afternoon, the Montreal winter decided to cut some slack with an unusually clear but freezing day. Your boss had given you the afternoon off after you finished a grueling quarterly report, and the only thing you wanted was to lose yourself in a place where nobody would demand a coffee from you. You decided to go to your favorite getaway: Saddique Books, a friend's chaotic secondhand bookstore, with narrow aisles that smelled like old paper and damp wood.
You glided through the classic fiction section, your gloved fingers brushing past the worn spines of the books, looking for something to disconnect you from the real world. You let out a sigh of relief, enjoying the almost sacred silence of the shop, which to you, was a sanctuary.
But to Daniela, it was a stage.
She had spent forty minutes blending into the environment, faking an almost academic interest in a section of out-of-print biographies three aisles over. She had mapped out the place in a heartbeat. She knew which floorboards creaked, where the light hit through the dirty windows, and most importantly, she recognized your pattern. You were stressed, your shoulders were subtly hunched, and you were looking for the most secluded corners.
Look at you, Daniela thought, watching you through the gap between two shelves of French poetry.
You were wearing that gray scarf you posted on your close friends story two days ago.
Dani wasn't gonna ignore the fact that it looks beautiful on you... but it's way too thin for today's wind.
You don't take good enough care of yourself.
She watched you slide your fingers through the classic fiction section. Your hand stopped in front of a worn-out edition of The Great Gatsby. Daniela had already anticipated that; it was one of your favorite books according to a Pinterest account from years ago, one you forgot to delete but that she had tracked down to the very last detail.
It was time. The universe needed a little push.
With silent steps, Daniela rounded the bookshelf. Just as your hand reached out to grab the spine of the book, another hand —long, with neat nails and firm fingers— rested on the exact same volume.
Your fingers brushed hers. The chill from the street could still be felt on her skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the shop. You jumped slightly, pulling your hand back by instinct, and looked up ready to drop an automatic apology.
Daniela looked at you. Her face was a perfect mask of polite surprise. There was no trace of the obsessive focus that had dominated her apartment for the past two weeks; just the curious gaze of a stranger looking for a book on a Friday afternoon.
—Oh, I'm sorry —Daniela said, gently pulling her hand back and giving you a small, apologetic smile—. I didn't see you. Go ahead and take it.
Her voice carried that slow, low, slightly raspy cadence you had heard before. But she made no move to recognize you. In fact, she took a step back, interlacing her hands behind her coat, ready to turn around and give you your space. True to the script of a polite stranger.
But you kept staring at her.
There was something about the way those dull brown irises still captured the golden light of the bookstore, and especially about that tone of voice that didn't belong to the cold accent of your country. Your mind, used to processing a thousand details a second for your bosses, suddenly clicked.
—Do I know you? —you asked.
In Daniela's mind, a silent symphony began to play. The hook was set, and you had just bitten with a grace that almost made her sigh.
Daniela stopped mid-turn. She frowned, tilting her head slightly as if trying to search her memory for a face that, in reality, she knew by heart.
—Excuse me? —she replied, and that single word, spoken with that very specific intonation, finished locking the last piece of the puzzle into your head.
—I knew it —you said, letting out a small, incredulous laugh, feeling like your memory was finally serving you for something fun and not just for remembering coffee brands—. That accent. It's you, the girl I bumped into a couple of weeks ago on the avenue.
Daniela had to fight with all her strength to keep from smiling ear to ear. Your face had lit up with a spark of triumph so genuine, so alive, that for a second Daniela's chest actually ached.
You're so smart, she thought, amazed by your ability to remember. You remembered me. Out of all the people in this damn city, you remembered me.
—Wow... —Daniela blinked, widening her smile slowly and faking a sudden realization—. The iPad girl. Did the device survive?
—It survived by a miracle —you admitted, letting out a low laugh that seemed to instantly clear away the cold tension you always carried on your shoulders.
—I'm glad to hear that —she said, tilting her head with a shyness she had practiced to perfection in front of her bathroom mirror. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets, shrugging subtly—. You would've had to pay a fortune for a corporate replacement. And from the way you were running, your boss doesn't seem like the understanding type.
You frowned playfully, surprised that a stranger had read the dynamic of your job so well from a three-second encounter under the drizzle.
—You have no idea. If that iPad had broken, I'd probably be writing reports by hand in the basement right now —you joked, crossing your arms. As you did, your thin scarf slipped a bit, leaving your neck exposed to the cool air of the bookstore.
Daniela noticed it immediately. Her gaze dropped to your skin for a fraction of a second, feeling an almost violent urge to adjust the fabric for you. But she held back. Control was everything. She had to be the most harmless version of herself.
—... what lovely people you have for bosses —she commented with a slightly sarcastic tone, but without being offensive.
—Yeah, way too lovely. Just today they gave me the afternoon off as some kind of 'consolation prize' for not collapsing during the end-of-quarter crunch —you admitted, shifting your gaze for a second toward the copy of The Great Gatsby that was still resting between the two of you on the shelf—. So I decided to come hide out here. It's the only place in the city where nobody asks me to draft an email CC'ing five different departments.
Of course she knew, this place was your sanctuary. And now, it belonged to both of you.
—It's a good hiding spot —she agreed—. Quiet. Nobody judges you for wasting time. I... also usually come here when the city gets too loud. I'm still adjusting to the pace around here.
—Where are you from? —you asked, feeling a genuine curiosity.
Daniela looked at you intently for a second, holding your gaze with an intensity that made you hold your breath for a millisecond before she blinked, softening the eye contact.
—From New Orleans —she lied with absolute ease, giving you one of her practiced half-smiles.
You nodded, satisfied with the answer.
You thought about it for a few seconds, realizing that despite having crashed into each other and now sharing a conversation in the middle of an aisle, you didn't even know her name.
She read your hesitation instantly. She extended a hand toward you, closing the distance in a way that felt completely natural.
—Andrea —she introduced herself, her voice dropping a register, becoming more intimate—. Andrea Avanzini.
Her middle name. A necessary lie, a paper shield to keep the past where it belonged: buried in the mud of her old life. Daniela knew that if she used her first name and curiosity led you to type "Daniela Avanzini" into a search engine on a Friday night, the algorithms wouldn't take long to suggest local press articles from her hometown. News about "complications in an investigation," "missing witnesses," or worse, the label of "unofficial suspect" in the tragic, mysterious accident of her ex-partner's friends.
No. Daniela wanted to be a clean slate for you. She wanted you to know her from scratch, without the noise of the corpses she had left behind in her attempt to "save" her previous love. Here, at Saddique Books, she was just Andrea. A new girl in town with an interesting accent and a shared taste for the classics.
—(y/n) —you replied, shaking her hand. Her fingers were firm, wrapping around yours with a pressure that felt strangely protective, as if she were in no rush to let you go.
I know, she thought as her eyes locked onto yours, sealing the silent pact that had just begun. I know exactly who you are.
—A pleasure, (y/n) —she said softly, savoring every syllable. She let go of your hand with a slow drag, letting the touch linger a second longer than strictly necessary—. So... The Great Gatsby? Were you looking to escape reality, or is it just an addiction to 1920s tragedies?
—A bit of both —you admitted, looking at the worn book that remained between the two of you on the shelf—. Sometimes I need to remember that people with money and power also ruin their lives in spectacular ways. It makes me feel better about my assistant salary.
Daniela let out a low laugh, a genuine sound that warmed her chest. She watched you with a focus that, had you been paying closer attention, would have seemed almost devouring, but at that moment just felt like deep, flattering attention.
—Well, if you want a real escape, Gatsby is an excellent choice —she commented—. Though, if you ask me, the real tragedy isn't Gatsby's money, but that he built a whole empire just to get a selfish girl to look at him.
The depth of her comment caught you off guard. It wasn't the typical elevator small talk you had with your coworkers. You looked at her again, intrigued by the calm intensity of this woman who seemed to have come out of nowhere to crash your afternoon off.
—You don't believe in romantic love, Andrea? —you asked with a lopsided smile, testing her name in your mouth for the first time.
Daniela's pulse stopped for a split second upon hearing her name from your lips. She leaned slightly toward you without hesitation.
—Oh, I believe in it —she whispered, and for the first time, a flash of that ruthless possessiveness she hid deep in her soul surfaced in her gaze—. I believe that when you find the right person, you'd do anything for them. Absolutely anything. Even... start over.
The days passed and the image of "Andrea" stayed burned into your mind like a distracting but highly intriguing static. In the middle of the office noise and the orders from your bosses, you found yourself replaying the warmth of her voice, that accent, and the intense way she had looked at you between the shelves.
Why hadn't you asked for her Instagram? Or her Snapchat? You felt like an idiot for just letting her walk away like that.
One night, while devouring a bowl of instant noodles in your bed, you couldn't take the curiosity anymore. You opened the LinkedIn app on your phone. If she worked in Montreal and dressed with that kind of elegance, she had to be on there.
You typed: Andrea Avanzini.
The screen loaded for a few seconds. Hundreds of results popped up. "Andrea Avanzini, account manager in Milan," "Andrea Avanzini, designer in Florence"... but none of them were the woman in the long coat and hazel eyes. Nobody with that face lived or worked in Canada according to the network's professional registry.
You frowned, feeling a slight chill. Had she lied to you about her name?
No, no way, you told yourself, trying to shake off the paranoia. She's probably just getting to the country, or maybe she prefers to keep a low profile.
You tossed the phone aside with a frustrated sigh, deciding to focus on the only plan you were excited for that week: the classic Saturday night out with your coworkers. Your only chance to be a normal person and not a machine.
Three blocks from your building, under the cold, damp gloom of the Montreal night, a silhouette blended perfectly with the shadows.
Daniela was wearing dark athletic clothes, a thick cotton hoodie with the hood pulled up, and a black cap that cast an impenetrable shadow over her face. To anyone crossing paths with her, she was just a night runner stretching her legs before tackling the icy wind.
But Daniela wasn't running. She was waiting.
When you stepped out of your apartment building's front doors, bundled up to your nose and looking around for a taxi, Daniela's eyes locked onto you with the precision of a hawk.
She watched you raise your hand and a yellow cab pulled up in front of you. The second you got in and the vehicle took off, Daniela didn't waste a single second. She crossed the street and hopped into a second taxi that was waiting on the open corner.
—Follow that car, please. Keep your distance —she ordered the driver in a tone so direct that the man didn't even dare to question her.
The drive was silent. Daniela watched the back of the taxi carrying you, feeling her own heartbeat quicken with a delicious mix of adrenaline and possessiveness. She wanted to witness what your world looked like outside of that office.
The cab finally stopped in front of a nightclub in the Plateau Mont-Royal area. It was one of those loud, modern venues, lit up by a massive pink and blue neon marquee that cast electric flashes over the wet asphalt.
You got out of the car, paying quickly, and stood near the entrance, away from the main line. It was freezing cold. You rubbed your hands together and, almost subconsciously, started biting the tip of your index finger as you looked down both sides of the street, rocking back and forth on your heels with obvious impatience.
Fifty meters away, hidden behind the frame of a dark alley and with the brim of her cap covering half her face, Daniela watched you without blinking.
She saw you bring the tip of your index finger to your lips, biting your nail nervously while taking small steps on your own axis. You were waiting for someone.
The mystery was solved a few seconds later when a female figure came running down the sidewalk.
Daniela recognized the face immediately. Her meticulous mind connected the face to the dozens of Instagram stories you used to upload to your close friends account.
Lara wrapped you in a hug that you returned with relief, letting out a laugh that Daniela could guess from the movement of your shoulders.
Good. Lara is harmless, she thought, relaxing the tension in her shoulders. She's a good influence.
But then, the vibe shifted.
Behind your friend, a second body emerged from the shadows. A young man, tall, wearing a well-tailored suede jacket and with a way too confident smile plastered across his face.
Daniela felt her blood turn to ice in her veins in a microsecond. All the warmth of the night evaporated, replaced by a sharp ringing in her ears.
She watched you with an obsessive focus, analyzing every millimeter of your body language. She saw you straighten up suddenly, losing the relaxed posture you had with Lara. Your smile became subtly shaky, your hands instinctively moved to adjust your coat, and you took a deep breath, as if trying to pull yourself together in the face of an unexpected impact.
Even from a distance, under the intermittent flashes of the pink neon, Daniela could swear your pupils had dilated completely as you looked at that stranger.
You didn't know him. His presence wasn't planned, but the subtle flirting in his body language and the way he checked you out from head to toe had interested you immediately.
Daniela's jaw clenched so hard it ached. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her hoodie, ripping the inner seam of the pocket from the sheer rage that suddenly flooded her.
The club's music thudded even through the thick brick walls, making the ground vibrate under Daniela's sneakers. The drizzle had turned into a fine sleet that stung the skin, but she barely felt it. Her body was a temple of pure adrenaline and hyper-focus.
An hour passed. Then two. Then three.
Daniela didn't care about the cold, nor the wind that threatened to freeze her hands inside her pockets. Her gaze remained locked onto the venue's back door, where the smokers came out, and the main entrance guarded by the bouncer. In her mind, time wasn't measured in minutes, but in the distance separating you from her.
At 4:14 in the morning, the pink and blue neon marquee flickered with less intensity. The club door flew open and a rowdy group emerged amid laughter and white breath.
Lara was no longer by your side; she had probably gotten lost on the dance floor. But the guy in the jacket was still there. He had his arm wrapped around your shoulders, a fake protective gesture that made Daniela clench her teeth. You were drunk, or at least tipsy enough to let yourself be guided, laughing at some unfunny joke he had just whispered in your ear.
She watched as he raised his hand to hail a cab. They got in together. The doors closed and the car pulled away, disappearing down the avenue.
Daniela reacted out of pure survival instinct. She ran to the corner, stopping the first free taxi with a whistle. She jumped in, tossing a hundred-dollar bill onto the dashboard for the driver.
—Follow that car. Don't lose it —she hissed, and the cabbie simply hit the gas without saying a single word.
The ride back to your building was a silent torment for her. You were having fun. You were a free spirit, sure, you had the right to enjoy your youth. But with him? With a fucking stranger who probably wouldn't even remember your name tomorrow? Daniela felt like her chest was going to explode. She was watching over you from a distance, and you were voluntarily throwing yourself into the wolf's mouth.
Their taxi pulled up in front of your entrance. Daniela saw the guy get out first, offering you his hand with a cheap chivalry that made her want to spit. They walked into the building's lobby.
Daniela got out of her cab before it even fully stopped. She couldn't go in through the main lobby; the doorman or the cameras would log her, and she was way too smart to make such an amateur mistake. She hurried around the building, slipping into the back alley. She found the fire escape, the one pretending to be a possible balcony overlooking a dark alleyway.
She began to climb. Her hands gripped the freezing rungs with superhuman strength, driven by the pure adrenaline of the intrusion. She didn't have a plan. She didn't know what floor you lived on, or your apartment number. But she wouldn't take long to find out.
She went up three floors, pressing her ear to the windows. The building was old, with thin walls. She only had to wait at the fourth-floor hallway window until the echo of muffled laughter and the sound of clumsy footsteps broke the corridor's silence.
—...seriously, your place is great —the guy's voice said, slurring his words with an unpleasant confidence.
—Don't lie, it's a mess —you replied, letting out a silly chuckle while fumbling for your keys in your purse.
Daniela peered through the glass. Waiting to see you enter your home.
But just as she waited, she ended up disgusted by the image in front of her: She saw the guy lean over you, subtly cornering you against the wood of the door as you went in, kissing your neck.
Daniela's breathing became erratic, heavy. Her fingers dug into the window frame, chipping the paint. She wanted to break in, grab that pathetic loser by the neck, and slam his head against the floor until he forgot your name.
That nobody now had you cornered against the small kitchen counter, kissing you with obvious clumsiness while his hands clumsily fumbled for the waist of your pants.
You giggled, your cheeks flushed from the alcohol, letting yourself go in the moment.
Daniela froze on the metal platform. Her eyes, fixed on the scene, darkened completely.
Yes. She should respect your most intimate and vulnerable moment.
But to her, privacy wasn't a right; it was a smoke screen that mediocre people used to hide their shortcomings. And you were full of them. You needed to be seen, to be saved from your own naivety.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass, eyes narrowed, and started to listen.
—Hey... slow down —your voice could be heard, a bit giggly.
—Why? You've been looking at me like that at the bar all night —he fired back smugly.
The creaking of your living room couch revealed they had already moved again. Then, the rustle of clothes.
Daniela closed her eyes tightly. Her imagination, fueled by the weeks she had spent dissecting every detail of your life, took absolute control of her mind. In her head, the scene began to distort in a twisted way.
It's not him, she told herself in a silent breath, feeling a sudden, burning heat begin to pool in her core, making her gasp. It's not his hand touching you. It's mine.
In Daniela's mind, the clumsiness of that stranger was transformed into her own relentless precision. She imagined herself pushing you against that couch, pinning you down with the firmness of her body. She imagined unbuttoning your blouse with the patience of someone unwrapping a gift that belongs to them by right, forcing you to look her in the eyes so you'd understand who was the only person in the entire world capable of truly worshiping you.
She slipped a hand down, feeling through the fabric of her sweatpants how her member reacted immediately, hardening and throbbing with force at the mere thought of your submission. A silent moan died in her throat as she heard a sigh from you inside the apartment.
Her fingers moved in a slow, agonizing rhythm over her own erect intimacy, syncing up with the noises coming from your living room.
The thrill of the intrusion, the constant risk of getting caught, and the certainty that she was violating your personal space pushed her to the limit. Daniela clenched her teeth, holding back a raspy growl as she imagined sinking into you over and over, claiming the space that stranger thought he had secured for one night.
A low grunt died in her throat as she quickened the movement of her hand.
Every moan of yours that managed to leak through the building's old wood was a direct hit to her sanity.
—Fuck... —she groaned in an inaudible whisper, clenching her teeth as her hand moved at a desperate pace inside her pants.
The hot, wet friction was driving her crazy. The risk was absolute: a neighbor looking out the window, the janitor deciding to check the alley, or you yourself if you turned your head toward the window. But the adrenaline of the danger only fed her fantasy. She imagined crashing through that glass, throwing you onto the floor, and covering your mouth with her hand to muffle your gasps of surprise before taking you, erasing the trace of any other man from your skin.
Inside, the sound of your muffled giggles started mixing with deeper gasps. Daniela sped up her hand, completely gone. Her member throbbed with blind force, fully erect and demanding a release that only the thought of you could spark.
The choked gasp you let out when that idiot's hand brushed the skin of your lower abdomen on the couch... Daniela received it like a whip strike straight to her own intimacy. She clenched her teeth, speeding up the motion of her hand.
Finally, that familiar, violent spasm wrecked through her whole body; she bit her bottom lip, holding back the raspy roar that wanted to escape her throat as she came hard against her own hand, feeling the thick warmth of her release drenching her entire hand and the inner fabric.
She stayed static for a moment, shivering slightly.
She slowly pulled her hand out of her clothes. She looked at her palm, wet with her own semen, and slowly brought a trace of it to her lips, tasting her own essence.
That was... one of the best orgasms she'd had in months.
She adjusted her hoodie, pulled her cap down to cover her face again, and began to climb down the fire escape with quiet steps.
She stopped at the first landing, right above the dark alley, and pulled a tissue from her hoodie pocket to meticulously clean her fingers.
The fantasy had evaporated. What was left was a bitter emptiness and an absolute certainty: you were in danger. Not because she was out there watching you, but because you were letting just anyone into your sanctuary.
I feel sorry for you, Daniela thought, tossing the used tissue into the bottom of a dumpster with a sharp flick. An idiot who'll leave tomorrow without looking back, leaving you with the exact same lonely feeling you wake up with every fucking Monday.
She walked back to her apartment. Her member, still sensitive under the fabric, reminded her with every step of the claim her body had made over yours. It wasn't a simple one-night whim. Today had been a diagnosis. You had proven that you are vulnerable, that you are desperately searching for a connection, and that your judgment in choosing who touches you is terribly flawed.
You needed direction. You needed a filter.
By Sunday noon, the headache from the cheap alcohol and accumulated exhaustion had you dragging yourself around your apartment. The guy from last night had left at ten in the morning with a cheap excuse about "a soccer game with friends," leaving you a cup of coffee on the counter and an uncomfortable emptiness in your chest.
You sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing your temples, feeling ridiculously predictable. Another night out, another attempt to fill the silence, another letdown.
You decided to go out for some fresh air to clear the brain fog. You put on a thick coat, your gray scarf, and walked aimlessly through the streets, dragging your feet until, almost unconsciously, you ended up near the little specialty coffee shop you usually went to on weekends.
Right on the corner, before crossing, you saw her.
"Andrea" was standing next to a closed flower stand. She was wearing a perfectly tailored brown wool coat, her jet-black hair pulled back into a sleek low bun, and that expression of quiet contemplation that had captivated you in the bookstore. She seemed to belong to a completely different world than yours; a world where people didn't wake up with hangovers or with the feeling of having made a mistake the night before.
Sensing your footsteps, Daniela turned her head. Her clean eyes, completely stripped of the wild focus of the early morning, lit up with an impeccably rehearsed surprise.
—(y/n)? —she uttered, and her voice, with that slow, warm accent, was like a balm to your ears overwhelmed by the city noise.
You stopped, feeling your heart take an unexpected leap.
—Andrea... Hey —you managed to say, cracking a half-smile as you adjusted your scarf, trying in vain to hide the exhaustion you were carrying.
You rubbed your temples with a nervous chuckle, narrowing your eyes under the harsh noon light. There was something ridiculously surreal about all of this. Montreal was a metropolis of almost two million people, a maze of concrete, snow, and anonymous faces. And yet, here she was. Again. As if destiny were obsessed with crossing your paths, or as if "Andrea" herself appeared every time you snapped your fingers in your mind.
—You look tired —she commented softly, tilting her head with a sympathetic grimace—. Lots of work this weekend?
You let out an amused huff, crossing your arms and looking at her with a raised eyebrow. The hangover was still throbbing behind your eyes, but this woman's presence ignited a spark of playfulness you thought you'd left at the club. You decided to dodge her question.
—What are you doing here? —you dropped suddenly, in a playful but direct tone, sweeping her with your gaze—. Seriously, it's starting to scare me a little. Are you following me? Or is this some kind of magic, Andrea?
Daniela had to make a monumental effort to keep her smile from turning into a smirk of pure smugness.
If only you knew how close I am to you, she thought, feeling a shiver of excitement run down her spine as she remembered the sweat on your forehead and your moans.
Instead, Dani let out a low laugh, an incredibly natural and relaxed sound.
Without any rush, she raised her hand and pointed her index finger over your shoulder, gesturing toward a couple of streets behind her.
—My apartment is right over there —she replied completely naturally, taking another step toward you—. So I'm afraid it's pure geographical coincidence. No magic.
She shrugged elegantly, shifting her gaze for a second toward the closed flower stand next to her.
—Actually... I was waiting to see if they'd open. I wanted to buy flowers for a friend —she added, locking her eyes back onto yours with flawless sweetness—. She had knee surgery a day ago and she's trapped in her living room. I wanted to bring her some color... you know, just a nice gesture so she doesn't get depressed.
An absolute, brilliant lie. Daniela didn't have friends in this city, and the last person she would ever buy flowers for was anyone but you. But she knew exactly which buttons to press. She knew you had just spent the night with some random guy who probably hadn't even asked if you slept well before leaving. You needed to see kindness. You needed to see that in this cold world, there were still thoughtful, empathetic... protective people left.
Your gaze softened in a split second. The cynicism you usually used to defend yourself at the office seemed to crack, revealing a genuine note of interest in your eyes. A strange warmth, a mix of admiration and curiosity, settled in your chest. Not only was she beautiful and smart; she was also the kind of person who cared for her own in such a sweet way.
—That's... really nice of you —you admitted, looking at her in a different, much more open way—. Your friend is lucky to have you around.
—Well... I like taking care of the people I care about —she stated in a low, almost confidential whisper that tickled your stomach—. Though I still haven't been able to get the flowers. Will you help me find another flower shop? I'm open to suggestions...
Her suggestion took you by surprise, but the dull ache of the hangover and the heavy Sunday vibe seemed to clear up a bit before her. There was something highly magnetic about her.
You couldn’t help but bite your lip shyly, feeling a nice flutter in your stomach.
—Well... I guess I can be your guide for today —you said, adjusting your scarf with a flirty gesture, wanting to look a little more awake than you actually were—. I know a little spot about four blocks from here. They have the best flowers in the area and, most importantly, decent coffee to survive the winter.
—Perfect. Lead the way, then —the dark-haired girl replied with a crooked smile, extending an arm to let you take the lead.
You walked together along the sidewalk, which was partially covered in snow. The freezing afternoon wind blew right against you, forcing you to hunch over a bit and shove your hands deep into your coat pockets. Daniela walked beside you with a firm, confident stride, perfectly in sync with yours. She watched you out of the corner of her eye, devouring the way the cold painted your cheeks a rosy shade and how your breath made tiny clouds of white steam in the air.
—So? —Daniela interrupted your thoughts, bringing you back to the present—. You haven't told me what exactly you do. Are you some kind of secret agent with that iPad and all the rush?
You let out a bitter laugh, looking down at your own feet breaking the frost on the ground. —I wish it were something that exciting —you admitted, shrugging—. I work at Lexton & Croft. Basically, I'm the glorified errand girl. If the partners need coffee, I run. If they need a report printed on three-hundred-gram linen paper at eight in the morning, I don’t sleep. I try... well, I try to write in my free time, but the corporate life drains every single drop of energy I have.
Daniela felt her heart skip a beat.
You write, she thought, and to her, it was like a golden puzzle piece fit perfectly in her mind. You're an artist.
—That sounds... exhausting —she said, stopping right before the crosswalk to look at you with a seriousness that felt almost sacred to you—. People often don't value the effort it takes to keep art alive when the world tries to crush you with bills and schedules. You're very brave for keeping at it.
Your eyes went a bit wide, touched by her words. No one in your circle, not even your best friends or the guys you went out with, had ever taken the time to validate your goals in such a deep and direct way. On that snowy street, under the intense and understanding gaze of this beautiful foreigner, you felt seen for the first time in a long time.
—Thanks... —you whispered, feeling your cheeks heat up from something more than just the cold—. Not many people get it.
Well, that was strangely... sweet?
—It's here —you pointed clumsily toward the rustic storefront of a flower shop and café a couple of meters ahead to break the spell of her gaze.
Daniela looked at the wooden sign at the entrance and then at you. In her mind, the plan was moving forward with perfect fluidity. You were opening up, you were letting "Andrea" see your cracks, your longings, your vulnerability. You were falling exactly where she wanted you to, looking for the warmth that your life denied you.
She opened the shop door to let you go in first, enjoying the sound of the bell above your heads.
The bell at the entrance jingled with a sharp ring. The warmth of the place hit your face, melting the thin layer of frost on your eyelashes.
Daniela walked in behind you, closing the door to block out the freezing wind from the street.
—I'll order the coffees first —she said, taking a step toward the rustic wooden counter.
You adjusted your scarf, letting out a soft chuckle as you shook your head. The hangover was still there, but your stomach was already way too acidic from the reheated coffee you had before leaving.
—Don't worry, just get the flowers for your friend, I'm good —you replied lightly, giving her a smile while putting your hands back in your coat pockets.
But at that instant, the atmosphere seemed to freeze.
Daniela’s posture, which was so fluid and confident, went stiff. Her gaze, which just a second ago was overflowing with a rehearsed warmth, went completely blank, getting lost at some point on the wall behind you before returning to your eyes with a strange intensity.
Her question hung in the air of the flower shop, heavy and out of place.
You frowned subtly, the smile freezing on your lips. A chill of confusion ran down the back of your neck. You stared at her, trying to figure out if she was messing with you, but her face looked temporarily dead serious. —Your... friend —you replied, letting out a short, somewhat awkward laugh as you looked around the shop, searching for some sense in the situation—. The one with the knee surgery? The one we were looking for a flower shop for?
The gears in Daniela's mind clicked with the force of a whiplash. The panic of being exposed, of having dropped the mask for a split second due to the overstimulation of having you so close, hit her head-on. She had been so focused on you, on your body language, that her own script had completely slipped her mind for a moment.
In a blink, the warmth returned to her face as if a light had suddenly been switched on, and she let out a raspy laugh, shaking her head with a naturalness that almost made you doubt your own sanity.
—I was just kidding —she said, tilting her head with a playful smile, trying to ease the tension.
You offered her a tight smile, the kind that doesn't show teeth, suddenly feeling a strange distance cool down the air between you two. The magnetic familiarity of a few minutes ago had cracked a millimeter. You took a step back, barely moving out of her personal space, and turned toward one of the wooden shelves to fake a sudden interest in some bundles of dried lavender and tulips on display.
Daniela watched you from behind, her fists clenched inside her coat pockets.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, she cursed herself in a silent hiss, feeling the adrenaline of danger spark up in her chest again.
She clenched her jaw, watching your fingers brush against the leaves of a plant.
Daniela took a deep breath, letting the warm air of the flower shop clear the cold from her lungs and, with it, any trace of tension. The panic faded from her hazel eyes as quickly as it had arrived.
She closed the distance between the two of you with slow, almost floating steps, being careful not to crowd your space all of a sudden so she wouldn’t startle you. She stopped right by your side, close enough for the warmth of her body to erase the distance you had just put between you, but still respecting your silence. She reached her fingers toward the same shelf, gently brushing the petals of a yellow tulip that was close to your hand.
—They're pretty... —she whispered.
There was no apology in her words. There was no "sorry for being weird a second ago," nor even a hint of awkward justification. Apologizing meant admitting a mistake, and Daniela didn't do mistakes. Her tone was so incredibly calm, so completely free of guilt, that it immediately made you second-guess your own reaction.
Had you been too harsh? Had you overreacted because of the hangover?
—My friend always says yellow flowers bring good luck for recovery —she continued, tilting her head to look at you and giving you that crooked smile, the one that felt like a secret shared only between the two of you.
—Though, if I'm being honest... —she added, leaning a fraction of an inch closer to you, her shoulder brushing yours in a seemingly casual way—, I'm terrible at picking these things. In Milan, the only plants I had were plastic because I always forgot to water them.
You let out a soft laugh, your posture relaxing almost completely without you even realizing it. The charm of her story and the softness of her voice had disarmed your guard with ridiculous ease.
—Milan? —you asked, taking the bait with curiosity—. You lived in Milan too?
—Guilty —she admitted, winking at you with an effortless charm—. But let's not talk about me. Tell me... if it were you stuck on a couch with a broken leg, what flowers would you want someone to bring you to brighten your day?
You stared at her for a second, feeling your heart recover that same rhythm from before. Her attention on you was so total, so absolute, that it made you feel like the center of the universe in the middle of that little flower shop.
—White tulips —you answered in a whisper—. I've always thought they're the simplest and, somehow, the most honest.
Daniela carved every single one of your words into her memory as if she were carving them in stone.
White tulips, she thought, feeling a shiver of pure possessiveness run down her spine as she looked at the curve of your lips. Noted. You'll have them on your table every single week.
—Ha... you have beautiful taste, (y/n).
The magic of the moment was so intense that you could almost hear your own heartbeat over the soft hum of the shop.
—Do you girls need help with anything? Or do you already know what you're getting? —the voice of the young employee, who had just come out of the back room wiping his hands on a canvas apron, broke the bubble that the woman in front of you had built around you.
You took a subtle step back, blinking to return to reality. Since coffee was already out of the equation, the focus of both of you shifted entirely to the counter.
Daniela didn't hesitate for a single second. Her gaze didn't even flicker as it swept past the buckets of water filled with red roses or sunflowers. She went straight for it.
—We'll take a bouquet of white tulips, please —she requested with flawless firmness, her accent adding an effortless elegance to the order.
The employee nodded immediately, carefully pulling the flowers out to start wrapping them in brown butcher paper. While he was cutting the stems, you noticed Andrea's hand move toward a side display, picking up the stem of a single flower. A pale pink camellia, almost translucent, flawless and without a single imperfection on its petals.
—Add this to the total of the bouquet —she told the employee, waving it barely an inch in the air before the guy nodded and went back to typing on the cash register.
She paid with her card. Then, as the employee finished putting together the big bouquet for her supposed friend, she turned to you.
With a delicious slowness, she reached out her hand and offered you the single camellia, holding it by the stem.
—Thanks for agreeing to waste your time with me —she said in a low, raspy whisper.
You froze for a second, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks at a hundred miles an hour. The mistake from a few minutes ago, the weird brain-fade about her friend... everything evaporated under the weight of her relentless charm. She was handing you a flower as if you were the only person that mattered in all of Montreal.
You smiled, genuinely shocked, as your fingers brushed hers while taking the flower. —Huh... it was... a pleasure, Andrea.
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