Who does that?
Psychos, that’s who.
“Don’t worry,” I purr, slipping through the window like it’s a front door. “I’ll take care of you now, darling.”
His scent hits me the second I land.
Fresh coffee. Rising dough.
That subtle, dark cologne.
He hasn’t been gone long.
His heat is still here.
Pressed into the cushions.
Bleeding through the walls.
We’re sharing air.
Almost.
Ghosting each other by minutes.
Like we’re already living together.
The kitchen is… meticulous.
Knives lined up like soldiers. No stray crumbs.
Maybe he’s just a baker after all.
My baker.
A giant Russian cream puff who could break me in half.
Or feed me until I can’t walk.
I prowl through the living room. Find the perfect little nook by the bookshelf.
Camera one, planted.
Because I like to watch.
Because I need to know everything.
If he’s all sugar, Oksana needs to be handled, quick, quiet, final.
But if there’s something sharper under the frosting, well… I’ll just have to be sharper still.
The kitchen camera gets pride of place, center stage, right over the pantry.
I want to see what he eats when no one’s watching.
What he whispers to the bread at midnight.
“Who are you really, my love?” I breathe, letting the cold from the fridge spill over my skin as I help myself.
