Then I move.
Her door is easy.
A worn latch.
An older bolt.
A maintenance bar installed incorrectly.
A breath.
A shift of metal.
A small click.
And I’m in.
The apartment smells like her.
Citrus.
Clean linen.
Warm skin.
Fear, faint but present — like she’s lived with it so long it’s soaked into the walls.
I breathe it in, slow and deep.
My heartbeat slows.
Mine.
Her jacket sits on the chair where she dropped it earlier.I trail two fingers down the sleeve.Touching the fabric is enough to make my pulse jump.
She hasn’t been home long.
I hear the shower running.
Perfect.
I walk through her apartment without rushing.I’ve been here before — not in body, but in study.Photos.Angles.The way she organizes things.The way her shoes line up by the door.
Everything she thinks she chose freely, I’ve already memorized.
Her bedroom is small.
Too neat.
Sheets tucked with obsessive care.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
The water stops.
I smile.
She thinks she’s alone.
