In the early morning, the sun blazes down atop your vehicle, the heat simmering as you drive away from one of the nearby schools—each preparing for their end-of-year celebrations before summer can truly begin. You roll down a familiar street, one that breathes routine and memory, when you spot a motorcycle paused at the stop sign just across from the turn you need to take to head home.

You don’t think much of it at first, though you recognize that particular motorcycle—and the young man straddling it with effortless control. There’s a haunting ease to the way he moves, a confidence that lingers in your mind long after he's gone.

You’ve seen him twice. The first time was weeks ago at a high school concert event. The second? Near your home, in the early morning—on the same red bike. Maybe it’s coincidence, but the thought clings like mist on your skin as you drive—one hand on the wheel, the other absently twirling strands of your hair.

You glance at the side-view mirror, your pulse quickening. He’s following. A few car lengths back. Your foot presses the brake and your vehicle rolls to a halt at the stop sign—the highway just ahead, waiting.

My eyes stay on your car as I follow. Your license plate is nothing special—just a random string of letters and numbers—but I know it by heart now, etched in my mind like scripture carved in stone. Do you notice? The way I watch you from behind my red helmet?

I linger in ways that are subtle, but deliberate. Lingering isn’t enough anymore—I want you to see me. I need you to. Passing you on the road never satisfies me. I need to know what it feels like when my fingers trail across your skin—slow at first, featherlight—then firm, greedy.

I want to pull you into me, every inch of you pressed against me, the space between us gone. Finally gone.

Your eyes hold on him for a long moment before you release the pedal, your vehicle turning and racing down the long stretch of road as your heart pounds in your chest with every glance back. But then you notice—he’s turning off to a side road. You don’t know where it leads, so you brush off the encounter as you sit behind the wheel, the drive home feeling longer than fifteen minutes.

Finally, you make it back home, pulling into your open garage and stepping on the brake once more as your car comes to a halt. You slide the gear into park, gather your house keys, and exit the car, stepping to the door and turning the key inside the lock, jiggling slightly to engage the mechanism.

You breathe a small sigh of relief as you step inside and shut the door behind you, reaching back to twist the lock into place. You stride through the kitchen and dining room, down the hall to your bedroom, and slip into the master bath—freshening up as you begin your routine, washing off the exhaustion still woven through your muscles.

It didn’t take me long to figure out where you live. I just took a different path to get here—one that let me stay out of sight. You don’t know I’m near. But I am. I know what you’re doing—and the thought of it fuels me like gasoline to flame.

Your body moves freely, alone in your home, unaware that you’re not as alone as you think. You can’t see me. Not yet. But I’m close. Closer than you’d guess. And I’m patient. I’ll wait for the moment that matters.

You belong to me. You just don’t know it yet. Don’t tell yourself otherwise. That would be a fatal mistake.

Time passes in the blink of an eye as you recline in your chair, reading a dark romance novel you picked up over the weekend—the tale sending shivers down your spine, its pages echoing a tension you can’t quite explain.

As the wind shifts and the house falls silent, a faint creak near the back makes you freeze. Not loud—barely noticeable—but it wasn’t the pipes, and it wasn’t the wind. Your fingers still on the page, your heart skips a beat. You glance toward the hallway, but see nothing. The silence that follows feels heavier—like something out there is holding its breath.

You left the side window unlatched... and now I’ve stepped out of your book.