Kurt tugs on his windbreaker, sluggishly marching down the stairs from his cozy, comfortable loft to the harsh, grey outdoors. He grumbles and moans theatrically along the way, which makes his downstairs neighbor, returning from her own morning jog, chuckle.

“Getting started a little late this morning, aren’t we, Mr. Hummel?” she teases.

“Don’t start with me, Mrs. Hildabreg. We can’t all be sprightly, energetic 63-year-olds, you know.”

“83 last May, dear.”

“So you keep telling me, but I don’t believe it. You still training for the Ironman Triathlon?”

“You know it.”

Kurt reluctantly leaves Mrs. Hildabreg behind, even though the scent of fresh baked cinnamon buns floods the hall the moment she opens her door, their sinful aroma luring him back. Kurt knows that if he’s willing to spill a little tea about the goings on at Vogue, she’d be more than happy to offer him one. He’s dodged many a morning jog that way before. If it wasn’t for his afternoon Spin class and his evening yoga, he’d be done for. But besides her genius baking skills, he enjoys their talks. Mrs. Hildabreg adopted him as her bestie after his left for L.A.. Lonely people can sense loneliness in others, it seems, so they tend to cling together like the last few Cheerios in the bowl.

But Kurt has to be strong this once. He doesn’t want to go on a morning jog, but he needs to get back in the swing. He indulged too much this weekend. Not on sweets. On Blaine. Kurt spent too much time in bed with Blaine sleeping late and too little time on his calisthenics.

That’s okay. He figures the amount of cardio he got having sex makes up for it.

Kurt sticks his earbuds in his ears and fiddles with his iPod to keep his mind off the impending cold. He feels it creeping into the hallway underneath the front door the closer he gets. It’s almost foreboding the way it sneaks up on him. He skips through the menu to his “Diva Playlist”, needing his carefully constructed mixture of Beyoncé, Aretha, and Whitney to get his heart pumping. Icy air hits him like a wall the second he steps out the door of his building and onto the sidewalk, but at the same time, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulls it out, already knowing who it’s going to be.

And that makes his chest feel instantly warm.

From: Blaine

So, when do I get to see you again?

Kurt reads this ridiculous message, sent by his adorably ridiculous boyfriend, and smiles.

From: Kurt

You just saw me this weekend. A lot of me, I might add. Aren’t you tired of me yet?

Kurt steps out of the doorway as he waits for a reply. He could swear someone had wanted to get by. He feels eyes on him, but no one walks past.

From: Blaine

Not at all. Need to see you. All the time. I miss you when you’re not around.

Kurt giggles. He’s about to send back a message about this obsession of Blaine’s being unhealthy, but he changes gears. He doesn’t want Blaine to think for one second that he equates Blaine’s cute comments with the aggravating messages Blaine still gets from his catfisher.

From: Kurt

Well, that makes two of us, which is why I’m having dinner with you tonight.

Kurt doesn’t think Blaine waits half a minute between getting his message, reading it, and sending a reply.

From: Blaine

Not soon enough.

Kurt can’t judge Blaine on the speed in which he replies since Kurt is already typing a response, having anticipated Blaine’s answer.

From: Kurt

What if I tell you that you get to have me for dessert?

There’s an actual pause between messages. Kurt can imagine the look on Blaine’s face when that message comes through.

From: Blaine

I can wait.

Kurt laughs out loud, that warmth in his chest spreading out to his limbs. If he had to sum up how he feels in one word, it would be yellow. Yes, with all of the romantic, evocative words in the English language, he picks one as juvenile yellow. Other words might fight to take its place and come close, but yellow fits so perfectly. Yellow makes Kurt think of spring and the sun, and he feels like the sun is shining just for him. The stars, too. And even though he’s exhausted right now, he feels beautiful, happy and energetic, like he can run and jump and swim for miles. He feels desired and safe and loved. Blaine brought that into his life.

Blaine makes him feel this way.

“Kurt? Kurt Hummel?”

Kurt pulls an earbud from his ear when he hears his name, a bizarre sense of déjà vu looming over him. He looks up, searching for a face to match the voice. There’s quite a few people out and about at this hour of the morning. It’s Monday, and most everyone in New York is on their way to work. But Kurt’s eyes are immediately drawn to the only other person standing around. He’s propped against a lamp post, smoking a cigarette, flicking the end with his thumb like a nervous tick though he seems far from nervous. He’s about Blaine’s height, with wavy brown hair, and deep set cognac eyes.

They would be beautiful eyes, Kurt thinks, if they weren’t glaring at him like this man wants to take Kurt’s head off.

“Kurt Hummel?” the man repeats again, tossing the cigarette butt to the floor, not bothering to crush it.

Kurt looks him over from head to toe. He doesn’t know how long the man has been standing there, but Kurt gets the impression from the mess of discarded butts littering the ground at his feet that he’s been there a while 

Kurt hopes he’s not another victim of the catfisher. Kurt only has one heart, and he’s already given it away.

But Kurt thinks not. The way the man stares, Kurt doesn’t want to give him an answer.

“That’s me,” Kurt says anyway since it’s obvious this man already knows. Why would he wait out here in the cold otherwise? “And you are …?

“Eli.” He leaves it at that. No last name. No other identifying information. Just Eli.

Kurt doesn’t remember ever meeting an Eli.

“Do I know you?” Kurt asks.

“No,” Eli says. Annoyed, he pushes off the lamp post. “But you know my boyfriend.”

“Your boyfriend?” Kurt scrunches his nose, confused, but realization dawns fast. “You’re … you’re him, aren’t you? The person who’s been catfishing Blaine.”

“I haven’t been catfishing him,” Eli sneers. “I’ve been trying to contact him, but he won’t talk to me anymore. He won’t talk to me because of you. You took him away from me.”

“I didn’t take him away from you. He was never yours to begin with.”

It hits Kurt after snapping that he should watch his tone. He doesn’t want to provoke this man. Kurt doesn’t know whether or not he’s dangerous. Everything about Eli unnerves Kurt - his constant running a hand through his hair, his eyes darting left and right as people walk by, shifting on his feet as if he’s preparing to barrel forward but only barely stopping himself.

But it’s the way he slides his hand to the back of his waist band - like he’s reaching for something beneath his jacket - that has the hairs at the nape of Kurt’s neck bristling.

Kurt wants to look this man in the eyes, wants to show Eli that he won’t be bullied, but his eyes drift to that hand every time it moves.

“That’s not true,” Eli argues. “We’ve been together … in real life. We’ve met. We’ve even been intimate.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” Kurt says with a scornful laugh, but the minute the words leave his mouth, he knows they’re true. That’s how the catfisher got Blaine’s number. It wasn’t some random person lifting it off of his notice on the bulletin boards.

Blaine actually knows him.

“We were both lonely,” Eli explains, “both in pain. We understand each other. I need him and he needs me, so you need to back off.”

“Excuse me? I need to what now?” Kurt blurts out, anger continuing on where common sense might have stepped down. He can’t help himself. On the one hand, Kurt knows he’s putting himself in harm’s way if this man intends on attacking him. On the other hand, how dare Eli? How dare he show up at Kurt’s home, of all places, and try to drive a wedge in his new, wonderful relationship? “If the two of you need each other so badly, understand each other, then why have you been lying to him? And using my face to do it? Which, by the way, makes you one of my least favorite people in the world.”

“That’s just a … it’s a big misunderstanding. A joke that went too far,” Eli demands, taking that step forward that Kurt has been dreading. Kurt’s outside his building with his back against the wall. The two of them might be physically matched, but this definitely puts Kurt at a disadvantage. One too many run-ins with high school bullies taught him to never let anyone back him up against a wall. “I had him first!”

“Are you calling dibs? What are you? Twelve?” Kurt feels this argument escalating but he can’t stop it. He doesn’t want to. He wants this man to make a move so that he and Blaine will have something to show the police. Maybe a black eye and a broken nose along with a handful of witnesses will finally get them off their asses to do something about Eli.

Eli takes another step forward, hands balled into fists, and Kurt braces himself. This is it. Eli’s going to punch him. Kurt sees a few people cross the street in his direction, eyes popping open as they take notice. Excellent. Kurt just has to make sure that his head doesn’t hit the wall behind him and knock him out. But mid-lunge, Eli stops. His hands relax. He stands upright, takes a casual step back, and crosses his arms over his chest. Kurt sees the man’s train of thought switch tracks, his expression go from livid to haughty in a blink. The transformation is expert … and terrifying. “Come on, Kurt,” he says, and even his voice sounds changed. “You work at Vogue, surrounded by handsome models. You can probably have a different guy every night if you wanted. You don’t really want my sloppy seconds, do you?”

“So, you’re slut shaming Blaine now? Is that it? That’s how much you need him? He’s a grown man! What he did before he met me doesn’t concern me … except maybe making sure he doesn’t have anything contagious.” Kurt tosses that remark in to re-stoke Eli’s ire. If he can only get Eli to take a swing at him … “Besides, I have him now.” Kurt doesn’t know what gets into him. This plan is crazy! He should stop now and call the police. But he’s so wrapped up in his venom for this man that he just wants to bury his needles into him. “I’ve been having him all weekend long.”

Kurt licks his lips and gives Eli a wink.

Eli’s eyes go from calculating slits to furious saucers. “You’re lying!”

“You saw the picture. You tell me.”

“Blaine wouldn’t go for someone as trashy and vulgar as you!”

“Is that why you picked my picture? Huh? From the millions of people in New York that you could pretend to be, you picked me because I’m trashy and vulgar? You don’t get to have it both ways, Eli. You don’t get to use my face and then insult me. And guess what? If I am trashy and vulgar, then Blaine likes trashy and vulgar because he’s going out with me. Me! Not you. Me.” Eli opens his mouth to interject. Kurt doesn’t give him the chance. “Blaine Anderson is an amazing, incredible man. I don’t know why the two of you aren’t together, and I don’t care, but you might know that for yourself if you were honest with him. But you can’t even be honest with yourself. Lesson learned. You’ll know for next time, but not with Blaine. Because I’m not giving him up for anything in the world.”

“Fine.” Eli’s face becomes hard, his mouth a grim line. “You want him so badly, you can have him.”

“Like I need your permission. I’m out of here. And like I said before, kindly fuck off.” Kurt rolls his eyes and storms off. He knows he shouldn’t. A voice in his head is screaming at him - Don’t turn your back on him! Don’t leave without calling the police! He knows where you live! He’ll be back! He'll break in! But his plan isn’t working. There’s too much adrenaline pumping through Kurt’s body right now, and he needs to get away.

He needs to put some distance between them before he does something rash.

He has a life to live, and he can’t derail it for this one disturbed man.

“Great. Fine. You guys win. Are you happy now?” Kurt hears the words closing in behind him, a persistent mumble in Eli’s grating voice. “You got an amazing, incredible man, and Blaine got the man of his dreams ... that doesn’t mean he gets to keep you.”

Kurt, phone still in hand, finally starts calling the police. That’s what he should have done from the beginning. He knows he’ll hear about that later – from the cops, from his dad, from Blaine. He’ll hear about it when this is all a distant memory. He’ll recount the story of coming out of his building to see Eli standing there, eyes set to kill, and he and Blaine will have a laugh about crazy exes. Blaine will tell him everything, tell him how he had to leave Eli because Eli is sick, he’s toxic. And if Blaine hadn’t been 100% certain of his decision to leave the man before, the catfishing and the stalking proved it. And thank God he got out of there before anything serious happened.

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

“Yeah, hi, my name is Kurt Hummel. I live in Bushwick, and I’m being chased down the street by my boyfriend’s ex …”

Kurt listens for the operator, but something drowns her out - a loud noise, like a jogger running into a metal trash can, then a scream. Probably the person who hit the trash can, Kurt thinks. Something hits his right shoulder, hard enough to knock him forward a step. Rocks. The asshole’s throwing rocks. What does he think that’s going to accomplish? It's definitely getting people’s attention because Kurt hears random yells of, “What the …?”, “Look out!”, “Oh my God! Stop him!” and “He’s bleeding!”

He’s bleeding? Kurt stutters another step. He feels warm and wet run down his arm, an ache in his shoulder he was about to write off to the cold morning and his stiff, sex-strained joints. He puts his left hand up to his right shoulder to investigate. His shoulder screams the second he touches it. Kurt drops his phone. He’d tried to wrap his fingers around it, but they wouldn’t work, and he just can’t seem to hold it anymore.

He pulls his left hand away and sees it. He knew it was there – his mind did, but his eyes hadn’t seen it yet. Blood. And the second his eyes see it, his brain confirms it, and a crippling pain spirals down his arm and through his chest. He tries to take another step, but he can’t, not even stuttered ones. Instead, his knees give out and he falls, the world spinning by on only half speed as he plummets to the ground. He hears more screams. One of them may be his own. He’s not sure. But there are plenty of them to go around so one of them must be. He hears running footsteps, and something that might be another trash can knock over, only it’s not a trash can. Kurt knows it’s not. He knows it never was.

“Out of the way! Out of the way! I’m a doctor,” he hears, or does he hear it? Is it his mind replaying the last movie he saw where someone got hurt and a doctor ran out of the crowd to help? Do doctors do that in real life, or is that just a Hollywood thing?

“Did anyone see what happened?”

A coat is draped over his legs, but he only feels the pressure. Not the warmth. His legs have gone numb. His mind is going numb. His shoulder burns like someone has stuck a poker inside it and is tearing it apart. The rest of him feels nauseous, more and more dizzy and sick with every heartbeat pushing a new river of blood down his arm.

Will his heart push it all out? How much does he have left?

“Some guy just walked up behind him and shot him!”

“No, no, they were fighting, and then he shot him!”

“You! In the blue hat! Call 9-1-1!”

“I already called them!”

“Good. That’s good. Sir? Sir, can you hear me? What’s your name? Do you know who shot you? No, no, no, keep your eyes open. Look at me. Blink if you can hear me. Sir? Sir? Does anyone know who this man is?”

“I do!” an older woman’s voice cuts in, the scent of cinnamon buns and memories of long conversations following behind her. “Kurt! Kurt, what happened!? Kurt, talk to me, honey! Kurt! Kur …”

Kurt wants to say something, but the numbness in his head has traveled to his tongue, leaving his mouth dry and his lips heavy. If he could say something, he’d just scream. The intense pain in his shoulder seems to insist on it. But he can’t scream, because he can’t breathe. And if he could breathe, he’d just throw up, bile working its way up from his stomach as air fights to weave a pathway into his lungs. Shock sets in, and whatever his body’s doing, his mind doesn’t know. That connection has been severed, removing it too far from his conscious to concern him.

Kurt thinks that the world should go black, but it doesn’t. Instead, everything becomes too bright. Loud and bright. The sun, the sidewalk, the people, the sky. He blinks to bring the world back into focus, but it refuses. It wants to remain fuzzy, and Kurt can’t seem to convince it otherwise.

He closes his eyes to shut out the bright, expecting nice, soothing dark, but all he sees is yellow.