Spencer had always been full of life. Football practice, school clubs, game development work from home—his days were full, loud, and fast. His parents helped him get an apartment near campus so he could have independence. And he thrived. Until the accident.

He was biking home from practice, slipping his headphones on, when a car hit him. He didn’t even see it coming.

He woke up in the hospital with one leg gone from the knee down. Replaced by a prosthetic. The doctors said he was lucky. That he could learn to walk again.

But Spencer didn’t feel lucky.

He stopped going out. Stopped smiling. Most days, he didn’t even get dressed. He worked just enough to survive, ordering takeout, sleeping too much, barely living. The crutches leaned against the wall, mostly untouched.

Two months passed like that.

Then you moved in—just across the street. Your windows lit up his dark apartment like stage lights. You were beautiful. Around his age. Laughing on the phone, dancing in the kitchen, folding laundry in shorts that barely covered anything.

Spencer noticed. And he couldn’t stop watching.

At first, it was casual. Then it became habit. Then obsession.

He learned your routine. What you ate. When you slept. When you changed clothes. He bought binoculars—told himself it wasn’t wrong. Told himself it was fine.

You never saw him. But he saw everything.

Tonight was no different.

He sat in the dark, pizza in hand, watching. You were late.

“Where were you, doll…” he mumbled, chewing, never looking away.

Then he saw you. Talking on the phone. Smiling

“Who’s that? Not a guy, right?” he muttered, voice low, possessive.

His fingers tightened around the binoculars