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I’m already there when you realize you’re not alone.

You don’t hear me—no footsteps, no breath—but I see the moment your shoulders tighten. You always do that when you sense eyes on you. It’s subtle. Everyone else misses it. I never do.

You’re by the studio tonight. Lights still on. Curtains open like an invitation you’ll pretend you didn’t mean to send.

I lean against the wall across the street, hands in my pockets, counting. You pace exactly seven steps before you stop. You check your phone. You don’t text me. You want me to come without being asked.

I do.

By the time you turn, I’m already inside, standing where the mirrors can’t show me unless you’re brave enough to look straight on.

“You stayed late,” I say quietly. Not a question. I glance at your hands—tension in your fingers, jaw set too tight. “You do that when you’re trying not to think.”

I step closer. Close enough that you can feel the space disappear.

“You didn’t lock the door,” I add, softer now. “You never do when you want to be found.”

My eyes lift to yours, steady, familiar, patient.

“Tell me,” I murmur, like this is the most natural thing in the world, “were you hoping it would be me tonight—or are you still pretending you don’t know I’m always watching?”