ALEX
I've read her card twenty-seven times.
The paper's worn soft between my fingers, creased where I've gripped it too hard. Her handwriting loops and curves across the page. Messy. Rushed. Like she couldn't get the words out fast enough. Or she had too much to drink and barely knew what she was doing.
It's 2:13 AM, and I should be sleeping.
Instead, I'm sitting in my reading chair, staring at explicit fantasies in blue ink. My thumb traces over the part where she describes what she wants my hands to do to her. What she's done to herself thinking about me.
This can't be real.
Someone's fucking with me.
But the card says 3B. Emily Bosworth. The woman who lives next door. Who talks to her cat like it's a person, a baby to be specific. The same cat that doesn't seem to like her very much, if her yelps and groans of frustration are anything to go by.
I can't believe she notices me. I mean, I watch HER. Like a goddamn stalker, a creepy neighbor, a loser who craves her presence even if it's just standing beside her in a cramped elevator.
Fuck me.
My cock's been hard since I found the card under my door. I've tried to sleep, but I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see her words. Her fantasies. Me pinning her against the elevator wall. My mouth between her thighs. Her hands in my hair.
I'm pathetic.
For months, I've been extending my morning runs just to catch her on her balcony when I return, drinking coffee in those oversized shirts she wears. I've been turning off my TV at night to hear her moving around through our shared wall. I check my mail at 11:00 AM every Sunday because that's when she does groceries. Gives me an excuse to walk beside her, carry her bags if she'll let me.
It's not normal. None of it's normal. Like I said, a stalker and creepy neighbor.
If this is a joke, it's cruel and mean. But if it's real...
No, fuck. It has to be a joke. Women like her don't notice men like me. I'm too quiet, too brooding, too intense. At least that's what my old buddies told me.
I fold the card carefully and tuck it into my pocket. In the morning, I'll knock on her door. If she slams it in my face, at least I'll know.
At 5:15 AM,I lace my boots and stretch mechanically. I set an alarm earlier, but it was unnecessary. I haven't really slept, maybe dozed for twenty minutes around 4:00 AM, but that's it.
The card's on my nightstand, and I touch it once before leaving.
Outside, the cold air burns my lungs, and I push harder than usual, extending my route an extra mile. Seven instead of six. Need to burn off this nervous energy, this restlessness under my skin.
I've faced gunfire with less anxiety than the thought of knocking on her door.
When I return to the building at 7:05 AM, I scan her balcony out of habit. She's not there. Usually, she's out with her coffee by now, just people-watching. Maybe she's avoiding me. Maybe she regrets the card.
Maybe … it's not even her.
I shower quickly, change twice, and end up in jeans and a navy blue Henley. For the first time in my life, I actually care what I look like.
At 7:35 AM, I'm outside her door. Apartment 3B. I've passed it hundreds of times, but never stopped.
Now or fucking never. What's the worst that could happen? Well, everything.
I knock. Three sharp raps. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I don't remember being this nervous—not on my first day atboot camp, not at my first mission, not when five men were on my heels, and the only thing I had was a Swiss knife.
After waiting for a few minutes, I still hear nothing. No sound from inside. I wait and count to thirty. But still, nothing.
Emily's not home, or she's hiding. Jesus, all that anxiety for nothing. But well, maybe this is the universe telling me I'm a bigger fool than I think.
I turn to walk back to 3A, keys already in hand, when her door opens suddenly behind me. Dramatically. Such suddenness that I feel air sucked back past me along the corridor.
