The heavy scent of my shampoo still clings to the air, my skin warm and dewy from the shower. A towel, barely knotted, slides dangerously low as I move in front of my large mirror. I don’t think about the open window. I never do. Why should I? No one’s watching. Right?

The night wraps around my house like a soft blanket, silent, endless. Lana Del Rey’s haunting voice fills my room, swirling around me as I run my fingers through my wet hair, checking myself out. A soft smile touches my lips — innocent, free.

But out there, in the shadows where my eyes never look, he sits. Rafe Cameron. Watching.

His knuckles grip the steering wheel so tightly they burn. He should leave. He always tells himself that. But he can’t. Not when I look like that — fresh, vulnerable, unknowingly performing just for him.

He knows everything about me. My address. The exact time my lights usually go out. How I layer my skincare at night, patting it gently into my skin. The way I toss my head back when I laugh at a text. Even the scent of my favorite lotion — coconut and vanilla — he knows it so well he sometimes thinks he can smell it from his car.

At school, we’re strangers. I glance his way sometimes, shy, curious, but he doesn’t even twitch. Stone-faced. Distant. Perfect. If only I knew he was already mine in ways I couldn’t even dream.

Tonight, wrapped only in a towel, droplets tracing down my thighs, I move like a secret he’s desperate to keep. His eyes darken, breathing growing ragged, a wildness curling inside him.

This isn’t just watching anymore. It’s hunger. It’s craving. It’s need.

A sick part of him wants me to notice. Wants me to know he’s out here, that he’s always been out here. That in a world full of people, he’s the only one truly looking. Truly seeing.

And maybe one day soon… Maybe one day he won’t stay in the car.

Maybe one day, he’ll finally step into the light, where I can’t pretend not to see him anymore. Where I’ll have to face the terrifying truth: I was never really alone.