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Mabel wasn't obsessed, that much was certain.
She wasn't some radical, some wild-eyed activist throwing herself in front of bulldozers just to make a statement. She wasn't looking for attention or some grand, dramatic showdown.
She just wanted to save the glade.
That small, sacred patch of wilderness where her grandmother had taught her the names of wildflowers where they'd sat together beneath the dappled sunlight, talking for hours. It wasn't just land, it was memory. It was love pressed into her childhood memories.
And Mabel needed to protect it.
Not out of spite, not out of some grand delusion of changing the world overnight. But because she believed deeply, stubbornly that improvement started small.
With her studies.
With university.
With learning the language of animals and ecosystems so she could advocate for them properly.
With preserving one corner of the world that still felt untouched by greed.
But Jerry, was there, standing in her way like some immovable force.
Every step forward, he undermined.
Every effort, he mocked.
Every time she tried to explain why this mattered, why the glade deserved to exist, he'd smile that infuriating, indulgent smile, like she was a child pleading to keep a stray kitten.
And that was the worst part, not the condescension, not even the highway itself.
It was the way he made her feel small.
Like her passion was trivial, like her grief was childish.
Like she was nothing more than a phase he had to endure until she "grew out of it."
But Mabel wouldn't grow out of it.
And she wouldn't let him erase the last living piece of her grandmother's legacy.
Not without a fight.
Jerry wasn't just any politician, he was mayor of Beaverton, a role requiring finesse, dedication, and a genuine connection with the community, not the snobbish detachment he seemed to relish.
But Mabel knew his type, the type who thought the world existed to glorify them.
The type who plastered their grinning face across billboards, every inch exuding an unbearable haughtiness.
And for Mabel's opinion, Jerry was fake. Every word, every gesture, every smile, a show for the public, a mask to hide his ruthless ambition.
Of course Jerry would win the mayoral election, just like he had four years ago, and the four years before that. It was inevitable. The city had already surrendered to his charm offensive, the staged photo-ops, the rehearsed speeches, the endless campaign flyers plastered on every lamppost, mailbox, and bulletin board.
"Vote for Jerry!"
That damned slogan followed Mabel everywhere.
She tugged another flyer off a telephone pole, crumpling it between her fingers before shoving it into her pocket. The glossy material resisted, barely bending, proof of its indestructible, eco-nightmare composition. Plastic-coated. Ink that wouldn’t fade. A pollutant disguised as propaganda.
Does he even know these take thirty years to decompose, right?
The hypocrisy was staggering.
Jerry preached about "progress," yet his campaign flooded the streets with trash that would outlast him, outlast her.
Mabel's backpack was already half-full with the day’s haul, each flyer another infuriating reminder of his grinning face. She had started collecting them a few months ago, unable to stomach leaving them rotting in the gutters.
But what could she do with them?
Burn them? Nah… Too toxic, the plastic would release thick, black smoke, poisoning the air worse than the flyer itself.
Use them as insulation? Maybe. The winters in her grandmother’s old cabin were brutal, and if these things wouldn’t decompose, they might as well trap heat.
Maybe she’d find a better use for them soon.
Mabel's footsteps dragged as she approached her cabin, the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders. She scuffed her sneakers against the worn wooden step, knocking loose the mud and dead leaves clinging to them.
Fumbling in her pocket, her fingers brushed cold metal. Keys. Finally going inside home.
The door creaked open with a familiar groan, revealing the dim interior she called home. She exhaled sharply through her nose, a slight groan as she flicked the light switch. The sudden brightness made her squint, illuminating the lived-in chaos of her space.
Her backpack hit the floor with a thud, followed by the rustle of her jacket sliding onto the overburdened hook by the door.
A quick scan of the room made her stomach sink.
Dishes piled in the sink. A week's worth of mail scattered across the counter. Her biology textbook lay open on the couch, abandoned mid-study session two days ago.
I need to clean.
The thought was exhausting before she even started.
Nineteen and on her own shouldn't feel this heavy. Between classes, chores, and fighting Jerry's latest encroachment on the glade, it was too much for her.
She rubbed her temples, the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind her eyes. The kitchen first. Maybe just the kitchen. If she could conquer that, the rest might feel manageable tomorrow.
The refrigerator hummed in the corner as she grabbed a trash bag, steeling herself against the mountain of takeout containers and empty coffee cups.
Living alone wasn't supposed to be this hard.
But neither was saving the glade.
And she wasn't about to give up on either.
Mabel clicked on the television just to fill the suffocating silence of her cabin, only to be greeted, yet again, by Jerry’s smug, wrinkled face filling the screen.
"Mayor Jerry Generazzo continues his charity tour, visiting local orphanages and kissing babies—"
Her grip tightened around the remote.
What a fucking narcissist.
"What a fucking narcissist…" she muttered under her breath.
The words slipped out of her mind quieter than intended, it was a habit, more than anything. There was no one around to hear her, no neighbors within shouting distance, no roommates to judge her outbursts. Just the quiet of the woods pressing against the thin walls of her grandmother’s old cabin.
But silence had become her companion, and breaking it felt almost like a transgression.
She turned away from the TV, busying herself with scrubbing the kitchen counter as Jerry’s voice oozed from the speakers, all practiced charm and lofty promises.
"Beaverton deserves progress—connection—a future that—"
The sponge in her hand twisted violently as she scraped at a stubborn stain.
Why did it feel like Jerry haunted every corner of her life?
Twitter. Television. Billboards. Even the goddamn radio, his voice worming its way into every mundane moment.
And now here, in the one place that was supposed to be hers.
Her sanctuary.
Her escape.
Ruined.
She chucked the sponge into the sink with a wet smack, glaring at the screen where Jerry shook hands with some wealthy donor, grinning like he’d just saved the world.
Her fingers twitched toward the remote.
Then stopped.
Because as much as she hated it…
She needed to know.
What lies was he selling today?
What promises would he break tomorrow?
And, most importantly. How could she use them against him?
A simmering heat crept up Mabel's neck as she scrubbed the last plate with unnecessary force.
Damn him.
Damn his perfectly pressed suits and silver-fox hair. Damn those stupid ties he always wore knotted just right. And especially damn that exact shade of blue that made his eyes look sharper, more cunning, as if he needed help looking like the villain in some Disney film.
Her fingers tightened around the sponge.
Worst of all was the memory of his smell, that clean, masculine cologne clinging to him when they'd argued two months ago. When she got a bit too close to him. It had been subtle but persistent, wrapping around her senses until she could practically taste it, woodsy and crisp with something sophisticated. Expensive.
Just like him.
That had made her cheeks burn.
She tries to convince herself that it was from anger.
But she's not sure.
The realization made her stomach twist. She hated that her body reacted at all, that even now, just thinking about their confrontation sent a prickle of heat across her skin.
The plate clattered into the drying rack as she jerked her hands back, water splashing onto the counter.
Enough.
The kitchen was clean. Or cleaner, at least.
Escaping to her bedroom offered no reprieve.
The chaos here was worse, clothes strewn across the floor, a leaning tower of clean-but-unfolded laundry teetering on her desk chair, her bed a tangle of sheets she hadn’t bothered to straighten in days.
And then there were the darts.
A half-dozen of them littered the floor beneath the corkboard where Jerry’s campaign photo hung, his smarmy grin still intact despite the holes peppering the edges. She’d missed every time.
Pathetic, and dangerous having sharp objects thrown on the floor.
She kicked one of the darts aside, listening to it skitter under the bed.
Everything felt like a mess, her room, her thoughts, the way her pulse jumped when she remembered the heat of his gaze during their arguments
Mabel flopped onto her bed with an exhausted sigh, her body sinking into the messy nest of blankets and pillows. She kicked off her shoes, letting them drop to the floor with a dull thud, before pulling her phone from her pocket.
Just a few minutes, she told herself. Just a little distraction before tackling Dr. Sam’s assignment.
But the moment she opened Twitter, there he was.
Jerry.
Of course.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, torn between scrolling past and, against her better judgment, clicking on the video he’d just posted.
Her jaw clenched as his smooth, overly rehearsed voice filled the quiet of her room.
"Beaverton deserves leaders who listen—who care—who put the community first—"
"Definitely not you, hypocritical piece of shit," she muttered, rolling her eyes.
But then came the nagging question, the one she tried and failed to ignore every time this happened.
Why the hell was she still following him on Twitter?
She hated him.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
But hatred didn’t explain why she analyzed every tweet he posted, dissecting his wording like it held some hidden meaning. Hatred didn’t account for the way she tracked his public appearances, noting the exact shade of his tie or the way his smile never quite reached his eyes in candid shots.
Hatred didn’t justify the crumpled campaign posters stuffed in her backpack, the ones she’d torn down in frustration, only to keep like some twisted collection.
Mabel's hatred certainly burned so deep it made her skin flush with heat at just the thought of him. When she imagined Jerry's face, those sharp features, the silver-streaked hair always perfectly styled, her palms grew damp. When they argued in person, her words tangled in her throat, not just from anger, but from the way her pulse raced whenever he stood too close.
She loathed how much she noticed about him.
The rich timbre of his voice, smooth as aged whiskey, wrapping around lies that still somehow made her stomach flutter. The way he never wore the same tie twice, always impeccably dressed, as if he lived to taunt her with his polished presence.
And worst of all?
How wet she got every damn time his face appeared on her phone screen.
I just need to destress,
she thought to herself, because she wasn't brave enough to even mutter it to herself, while burrowing deeper into her sheets.
Jerry stresses me out.
But she knew that was a partial lie.
Jerry didn’t just stress her, he consumed her.
Her fingers trembled as they slipped past the waistband of her pants, her breath already uneven. She had barely pull her pants out of herself when her knuckles brushed against something tucked in her pocket, a crumpled campaign flyer, Jerry’s smug face staring up at her from the creased paper.
She froze.
For a long moment, she just stared at it his stupidly handsome grin, the arrogant tilt of his chin, before letting it flutter onto the mattress beside her.
Her jeans hit the floor with a thud.
After this, I'll burn every damn poster of Jerry in my backpack...
The thought flashed through Mabel's mind, feverish and desperate, even as her fingers slipped beneath the damp fabric of her underwear. The wetness clinging to her skin made her bite back a whimper, proof of just how far gone she was.
And the ones from the wall too…
And also the pinned-up campaign photos on the cork board
The ones she'd once used to meticulously plan arguments against him.
On screen, Jerry's polished voice filled the room, smooth and authoritative as he discussed state budgets and financial aid. But Mabel wasn't listening to a word of it.
All she heard was the cadence, the way his voice dipped and curled around syllables, the faint rasp when he emphasized a point. All she saw was that smile, the one that made her stomach clench every time he glanced directly at the camera, as if he knew exactly who was watching.
Her breath hitched as she rolled her clit between two fingers, already swollen and sensitive. A sharp pinch made her thighs jerk, the sting blending perfectly with the heat coiling low in her belly. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle a moan, just as Jerry tilted his head, his dark eyes locking onto the lens with that infuriating, knowing charm.
Four minutes.
Four agonizing minutes of video, of his voice wrapping around her, his face flickering on the screen while her fingers moved in frantic, shameful circles.
Mabel's breath came in ragged gasps as she pressed her hand between her thighs, the feeling sending sparks of pleasure up her spine. The worn fabric of her sheets bunched beneath her trembling body, already damp with sweat and something far more shameful.
She dropped her phone next to her, realizing that her bare fingers wouldn't satisfy her. She didn't care about staining the sheets where she slept, where she rested every night amidst a tangle of bed sheets and stuffed toys. She got up, removed her damp underwear and placed a pillow between her legs, and started to move her hips, trying to find friction. Hearing Jerry's voice through her speakers was more effective than she could have imagined.
It's like he's watching me…
The thought slithered through her mind, making her hips stutter.
Like he knows exactly what I'm doing.
Like he was really there, like he could see her through the cracked screen of her iPhone. And for Mabel, that illusion was enough to make her feel weak and overheated.
That fantasy alone was enough to make her skin prickle with heat.
With shaky hands, she reached for the crumpled campaign flyer lying beside her childhood stuffed bear, some pathetic part of her still clinging to innocence even as she unraveled. She smoothed it out against the pillow beneath her, Jerry's face staring up at her, creased but unmistakable.
"You bastard," she muttered, grinding down harder. "You arrogant, infuriating bastard—"
But the insult melted into a moan as she imagined him there, with his weight pressing her into the mattress, Mabel squeezed her eyes shut, fingers digging into the pillow as she rolled her hips in desperate, uneven circles. The fabric was warm now, heated from friction. but it wasn't enough. Never enough.
Her free hand slid between her thighs, trembling as she traced the swollen folds of her cunt before pushing a finger inside. A shallow gasp escaped her lips. It felt good, but her fingers were too short, couldn't reach deep enough to chase the pleasure she craved.
A second finger joined the first, stretching her just enough to make her back arch off the mattress.
Jerry's voice filled the room, low, smooth, maddening, as if he were really there, whispering against her ear.
Her imagination betrayed her, painting vivid pictures.
His weight pinning her down. His hands, larger than hers, rougher, exploring every inch of her body. His mouth, that infuriatingly perfect mouth, trailing kisses down her throat while his fingers worked her open just like this.
"I’ve waited so long for this, Mabel..."
Her breath hitched. The words… his words, even if only in her head, sent a shudder through her entire body.
"You’re so soft… so small. I could take you for hours..."
Her hips jerked involuntarily, fingers curling deeper inside herself as if trying to mimic the stretch of him.
And then, the worst one. The cruelest one.
"You love me. Don’t you, Mabel?"
Her eyes flew open.
"No—" Her voice cracked, strained from biting back moans. "No, I d-don’t—you fucking… elitist pig."
But the protest sounded weak, even to her own ears.
Her gaze locked onto the wrinkled campaign flyer under her, Jerry’s smug face staring back, lifeless, safe in its two-dimensional stillness.
Yet her fingers didn’t stop.
Mabel clenched her teeth around the neckline of her t-shirt, biting down hard to muffle the pathetic, whimpering moans clawing their way up her throat. The fabric tasted faintly of detergent and salt, her own sweat soaking through, but she barely registered it. Not when her entire body was wound so tight she could snap at any second.
Her fingers worked ruthlessly inside herself, curling relentlessly against that spot, that one perfect spot while her hips rolled and ground against the pillow beneath her. The rough friction had to be leaving marks, her clit swollen and oversensitive, the skin of her inner thighs likely chafed raw, but she didn’t care.
She was close.
So close she could taste it.
And all because of him.
Jerry’s voice, his face, his smug fucking superiority… it played on a loop in her mind, taunting her. Every glance they’d ever exchanged, every argument where he’d looked down at her, not just physically, but metaphorically, like she was nothing more than an inconvenient joke.
And yet here she was.
Sprawled on her bed.
Dripping onto his campaign flyer.
"I hate you—" The words tore from her lips between ragged gasps, half-sobbed and venomous. "I h-hate you so much… Jerry…"
Her voice broke as her climax hit, a violent, full-body tremor that made her toes curl and her back arch off the mattress. She pressed her face down against the wrinkled photo beneath her, kissing him, licking him, smothering a scream into the paper as pleasure, hot and shameful, ripped through her.
His name echoed in her skull like a curse.
When it was over, she lay there, limp and trembling, still clutching the flyer in her sweaty fingers.
Again.
This was the third time this week Mabel had come undone to thoughts of him.
She let go of the crumpled flyer, pulling away from the pillow that bore her saliva stain. Grabbing her phone, she saw a few final seconds of Jerry's speech still playing from the speaker.
God, his voice.
As infuriating as ever.
For a moment, clarity washed over her, cutting through the hormonal haze of her teenage brain.
Mabel turned her head, gazing at the pillow beneath her, completely soaked in the evidence of her shame. The fabric was damp, clinging uncomfortably to her thighs as she shifted, her own scent thick in the air.
With a frustrated groan, she grabbed the crumpled, saliva-streaked flyer, Jerry's smirking face now partially blurred from moisture and crushed it into a tight ball in her fist before tossing it onto the floor.
"I'll clean that up later," she lied to herself.
Her room was a disaster.
And not just the usual mess of clothes and textbooks, she realized it was something worse.
Posters of Jerry's campaign speeches were half-torn but still pinned to her walls. His face glared at her from the corkboard where she used to meticulously outline arguments against his policies. His photo was still taped to her dartboard, holes puncturing his forehead from her failed attempts to hit bullseyes.
And then there was the boxing punching bag in the corner, the one she purposely drawn his face into, the one she punched relentlessly while screaming insults, imagining it was him swinging back.
Mabel's breath caught in her throat as the realization hit her like a physical blow.
She wasn’t just angry at Jerry.
She wasn’t just politically opposed to him.
She was obsessed.
And not in the casual, "I-follow-my-nemesis-on-social-media" kind of way.
No.
This was something filthier.
Something that twisted her stomach into knots every time she saw him. Something that made her blood boil and her body betray her. Something that had her coming to the sound of his voice while simultaneously fantasizing about slapping him across the face.
"Oh my god…"
She flopped back onto the bed, covering her face with her hands.
She needed to get rid of everything.
Burn the posters.
Trash the flyers.
Tear his face off the cork board.
But would she?
Nah… She doesn't think so.
Because hating Jerry was one thing.
But letting go of him, that was impossible.
Jerry sat propped against his pillows, the soft glow of his bedside lamp illuminating the pages of his book. Reading before bed had always been his ritual, a way to quiet his mind, to ease the tensions of the day before shutting off the lights precisely at 11:00 PM.
His thumb hovered over the edge of the page, ready to turn it, when—
Click.
A sharp, unnatural sound against his window.
Jerry paused, frowning.
Click. Click.
Now it was rhythmic.
Setting his book aside, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and slipped into his slippers just as another pebble struck the glass.
"What in the—?"
He yanked the curtains aside, and nearly choked on his own breath.
Mabel.
Standing in his front yard, bathed in the glow of his porch light, her arm already winding back to launch another pebble.
Jerry shoved the window open with more force than necessary, leaning out so far he nearly lost his balance.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" His voice carried louder than intended.
Down below, Mabel dropped the handful of remaining pebbles. They scattered across his perfectly manicured lawn.
"I came to talk to you—"
Talk about what?
Jerry's mind raced. Was this another political ambush? A confrontation about some policy they'd argued over last week? Was she here to scream at him at midnight like some deranged protester?
His pulse pounded in his throat.
Jerry’s voice was sharp with indignation as he leaned further out the window, his fingers gripping the sill tightly.
"What is wrong with you?! This is my home!"
Mabel crossed her arms defiantly, her stance wide and unyielding despite the late hour and the absurdity of her intrusion. The moonlight cast jagged shadows across her face, emphasizing the stubborn tilt of her chin.
"Oh, now you care about your home?!" she shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Funny how you don’t give a damn when you’re bulldozing the homes of dozens of innocent animals! But sure, your property line matters!"
Jerry exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience fraying. He pinched the bridge of his glasses, shoving them back up before pointing an accusatory finger at her. "Get off my lawn right now or I’m calling the police."
Mabel didn’t flinch. If anything, her grin turned more serious. "Go ahead! Call them! I dare you, you hypocrite!"
"I will!" Jerry snapped. "Because you’re insane! You’re obsessed—with that damn forest, with those ridiculous animals, and with me!"
The words hung in the air like a lit fuse.
Mabel’s smirk twisted into anger "Oh, trust me, you wish I was obsessed with you," she spat, taking a threatening step forward. "I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you?"
Jerry’s face flushed, whether from anger or something else, he refused to acknowledge. "That’s it. I’m done. I’m calling them."
"Do it!" Mabel challenged, her voice rising. "Let’s see how your precious voters react when they find out their beloved mayor called the cops on a teenager for asking for a peaceful talk!"
Jerry barely managed two steps toward his nightstand when a crumpled projectile thwacked against his shoulder, bouncing onto the carpet with a damp plop.
Glanced down.
A soaked campaign flyer. His campaign flyer, lay unfolded on the floor, the ink blurred beyond recognition, his smiling face warped into something grotesque.
"Stop throwing garbage at me, Mabel!" Jerry barked, snatching up his phone and the ruined flyer before storming back to the window.
She stood below, arms crossed, grinning like she'd already won something. "Ha! Look who's talking" she shot back.
For a moment, Jerry just stared.
Was this really happening?
Was the same girl who'd spent months protesting his policies, debating him in public forums, and allegedly vandalizing his campaign posters really standing in his yard at midnight.
Throwing soggy flyers at him?
Like some kind of deranged, immature protester.
"You're unbelievable." he muttered, seeing a long night ahead of him.