I flip through the stack, slowly taking each photo in, as Blue slowly wears less and less until she's in nothing but the white lingerie she claims she made for me.
My mouth waters, and I stare at the lace, clinging to her breasts, barely covering her pussy.
I sink into my chair, putting the photos across my desk, with the four of her in the white lingerie directly in front of me, memorizing the curve of her ass and waist until they're engraved in my mind.
I pick up the fifth, drink three large gulps directly from the bottle, and drag a finger on a photo over Blue's pussy.
"Fuck, Bluebird. I hate you for this," I mumble, but it's a lie.
Our relationship has evolved and sharpened. It's grown teeth, and I shouldn't want any part of it. But the burn in my gut isn't from Scotch. It's from the monster inside me who doesn't want any part of the man I'm fighting to be with Blue. The demon wants my patient, in the white lingerie she made for me, and in positions I have no business engaging in with her.
I tap my phone's screen and reread her text.
Blue: My parents will be at our next session.
The longer I stare at her message, the more twisted my thoughts turn.
I shouldn't want her parents in that room. Not after what happened today. Not after she snuck into my house, planted photos in my locked drawer, and instead of being angry, I'm salivating at the mouth.
The images form anyway, vivid and uninvited, of Blue seated between her parents, posture rigid, eyes flicking to me not for reassurance but alignment and permission. Then there's me holding the structure.
Holding her without touching her.
The thought tightens something low and dangerous in my gut. It's control, not over her but over the environment and narrative, what is and isn't allowed to exist between us.
My jaw locks. I put the photos back into the envelope, slide the drawer shut, and lock it with a decisive click. But the images are already burned behind my eyes. They don't need access to paper to exist.
I return to the kitchen with the Scotch, pour four fingers in my tumbler, and lift it, my reflection warping through amber liquid.
I tell myself this is the last one. It's just another lie. I step in front of the window, staring down at the street, at the slow crawl of headlights and shadows, and the question arrives uninvited.
Is she down there watching me?
Does she know I've seen her photos?
A new realization settles quietly, without panic or resistance. For the first time, I don't recoil when I should. I don't even tense. Something in me eases instead, aligning like a mechanism clicking into place.
The thought of her eyes on me doesn't feel like exposure. It feels like confirmation and acknowledgment.
And right now, I don't want privacy. I want to be seen, calibrated against her attention. Hell, even measured by it.
"Where are you, my little Bluebird?"
My gaze darts across the street. The Scotch barely burns my throat. A new understanding takes root.
It's not a fear of being observed that's been haunting me tonight. It's the absence of it.
A chirp tears me out of my trance. Adrenaline spikes, and I tear myself away from the window and grab my phone.
Blue: Which one is your favorite?
My pulse pounds between my ears. I step in front of the window again, eagerly looking, but I don't see her anywhere.
Another chirp erupts.
I glance at my screen.
Blue: Look in your nightstand.
