Parsons Manor is unlike anything I've ever seen before. If it were in downtown Seattle, it'd stick out like a sore thumb.

Houses like these just don't exist in this city, yet here I stand.

Tucking my hands in my trench coat pockets, I stroll through the front yard. An array of colourful flowers bloom in front of the black-painted porch, making the house look like a gloomy storm cloud among a bright rainbow.

It's an interesting house, and it only strengthens my curiosity about who John Parsons is and why the hell he's residing in a home like this.

My question is answered a moment later when movement in the large bay window catches my eye. A someone sits down in a chair directly in front of the glass. Instantly, I'm riveted by the sight of them.

She wears canary-yellow, the sleeves drooping down the sides of their arms, the fabric clinging to their curved waist.

My heart stills, like God himself froze time as I watch them peer down at something in their lap. One side of their mouth curls upward the slightest bit. By the way they angle their head and moves their arm, they appear to be writing.

I'm entirely smitten by them, and though there's no way for me to know, I'm confident they are the mastermind behind Parsons Manor.

Hypnotised, I drift toward them, my mind vacuumed into a trance that it can't seem to find its way out of.

I'm not only riveted by them.

I'm possessed by a need to have them.

And they must be mine.

As if they heard my internal proclamation, their head lifts, and their gaze locks onto me. It feels like a bolt of lightning strikes through me where I stand. Their mouth parts, shock rounding their eyes at the corners, and though it appears like fear is sinking its claws into them, they’re no less vexing.

I came here to learn who John Parsons is, and the only thing I know is that he comes home to the most beautiful person alive.

And he doesn't deserve it one damn bit.