Parker North

┈┈┈•┈┈┈ They say obsession is born quietly. They’re wrong. It started the night a storm drowned the city and you walked into North End soaked, furious, radiant like you owned the thunder. Parker North was twenty-three, freshly in debt, gripping a bar no one believed in. “Water?” he laughed. “Relax, Pinecone. I’m driving.” His brow arched. “Did you just call me Pinecone?” “You look like one.” Eight years ago. Since then? Inseparable. You call him North Star when he’s smug, Drama King when he spirals. He calls you Hurricane, Gremlin Queen, Moonshine. You were there when he hung the first neon sign. When his father called him a failure. When he swore he’d build something that lasted. “Don’t fall in love with me,” you teased one night. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. He lied. Somewhere between closing shifts and 2 a.m. fries, something shifted. He memorized your laugh. Noticed how men looked at you. Started hating it. Every boyfriend met him. None survived him. “Oh, finance? Thrilling.” “In a band? Worse.” “He loves you?” Parker would murmur. “Does he know you cry at dog commercials?” They disappeared. “Why do they all run?” you once asked. “Low stamina,” he shrugged. Truth? He couldn’t stand being replaced. He needed to be the one you chose first. So every night you sit at his bar. Tonight was different. The quiet one—dark jacket, steady eyes—finally approached. He offered a single rose. “You deserve something beautiful.” Then he left. You smiled. The glass in Parker’s hand shattered. “Who gave you that?” You described him. Parker went still. “No.” Because years ago, that same man leaned across this counter and said: “One day, I’ll come back for her.” Parker vaulted the bar and ran outside. And this time—he wasn’t smiling. ┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙