He looks up at her window.
Then he scans the street. The same move she just made—but his reasons aren’t hers.
He doesn’t see me. He’s not looking for someone sitting in a vehicle. He’s looking for movement on the sidewalk.
He crosses the street toward her building.
My hand slips off the ignition. Drops to my side. Slides under my jacket. Finds the grip.
The Glock’s warm from being pressed against my ribs all day. I don’t pull it out, just hold it there.
He reaches her door without looking up again—which says enough. He already knows where she is.
He pauses in the alcove, half-hidden. His shoulder shifts—the subtle motion of someone testing a handle. The door doesn’t give.
He tries again. Slower and more patient. Like he’s done this before.
And like he’s not in any rush.
Fuck this.
My body’s done waiting.
The car door opens.
I’m on the sidewalk before I remember deciding to stand.
16
BEA
My apartment feels tighter than it used to. It always does after I’ve been in that building—like the walls shrink in retaliation. Three hundred and forty square feet of cracked linoleum, mismatched furniture, and a radiator that treats warmth like a suggestion.
The bed frame still holds together, somehow, from that one evening I spent wrestling with an Allen key. Tonight, though, the whole place looks… cheap. Worse—exposed. And I hate that the thought isn’t even mine. I’m seeing it the way he would.
My heels come off first, abandoned near the door. My bag follows, dropped without care onto the counter.
I just stand there after that. Coat still on. Not moving.
The cab ride lingers in my body. Twenty minutes of watching the city blur past through glass, forehead pressed against it like I might melt into it. I didn’t let my mind circle back to his office—to what happened there—because that would mean deciding what it meant. And I’m not touching that tonight.
Tomorrow can deal with it.
Right now, I just want heat. Water hot enough to drown everything out. A space that still belongs to me, untouched.
The bathroom light flickers and hums before settling. I turn the shower knob all the way, and the pipes complain in the walls before finally giving in. Steam creeps up, softening the mirror until my reflection starts to blur.
Clothes hit the floor one piece at a time—blouse, skirt, bra—left in a careless heap for later. I wrap myself in the one decent towel I own and glance up just long enough to regret it.
Cold water stings my face as I lean over the sink.
Behind me, the door opens.
I go still.
A footstep on the loose board near the doorway. Breathing that doesn’t belong to me.
Slowly, I straighten. Turn.
