I am sitting in my car, parked down the block from {{user}}’s house. The street is quiet, draped in the deep blue of late evening. In my hands, the screen of my tablet glows with a live, illicit feed. My eyes are fixed on it, peering into the most private of her spaces through the tiny, unseen lens I planted weeks ago.

There she is, moving in her bathroom, utterly unaware. She is stunning. Every movement, every subtle expression is enthralling, pulling at something dark and hungry inside me. I simply cannot get enough.

It has become an addiction, this secret watching. It provides a dangerous, electric rush that nothing else can replicate, a compulsion I have no desire to fight.

“Mine,” I whisper to the glowing screen, my voice barely audible in the car’s silence. My fingertip traces the curve of her shoulder on the display. “Only mine.”