Page 136 of Primal

A Post-it stuck to the fridge door: buy oat milk or DIE.

Little skull doodle underneath. Morbid. Cute. Probably directed at herself.

I adjust my glasses then unzip my backpack. Time to work.

It’s not stalking if you’re protecting her.

I mount the first of the cameras in a corner—angled toward the kitchen door. Clean line of sight. Motion-activated.

The cabinet cam’s got the money shot. Once it’s running, I know exactly what it’ll catch: her, counter-leaning in those sleep shorts, spoon-deep in peanut butter, scowling like the jar insulted her ancestors.

Day 122 of the living room experiment. Subject has created another biome of chaos: pepperoni grease seeping into the Dec issue of Layout Weekly, left slipper abandoned at the 32-degree angle I documented last Tuesday, and—new development—a lacy red thong dangling from the ceiling fan?

Real subtle.

I snap a photo. For evidence. For later. For ... reasons.

Second camera goes in the hallway. Covers the living room and the kitchen pass-through.

A couple more disguised in the vent slats, above the coat rack, and high angles in the corners.

Her bedroom door is half-open. The rest is hidden by a wall. Might as well be a mile of no-man’s land.

I slip inside.

The bed’s unmade, sheets tangled. A thick book titled ‘Advanced Photoshop.’ A neon pink vibrator—charging on the nightstand. Maybe I should confiscate it. Fire hazard. Emotional hazard. Take your pick.

“Priorities,” I mutter.

I install another camera on the bookshelf—behind a row of novels.

Bared to the Alpha Billionaire Vampire. Figures.

I take a deep breath—vanilla shampoo and that cheap peach body spray.

Fuck. I’m sniffing her air now?

The dresser’s a goldmine. On top: a cracked iPhone held together with a pink glitter case and denial. No charger in sight. Probably full of selfies and unsent drafts she never had the balls to delete. Next to it, a shoebox stuffed with those little Instax prints—tiny square memories curled at the edges. Her with purple hair, arms slung around two girls. All three grinning like they just stole a street sign and posed for proof. Payton in bed, tongue out, one hand flipping off the camera.

I don’t linger.

The drawer sticks. My pulse surges.

Lace. Silk. Satin.

Walk away.

First pair’s cherry red—less fabric than a Band-Aid. Next, midnight blue, lace so delicate it’d shred in a stiff breeze. Then white, with those goddamn bows, like she’s packaging a grenade as a birthday gift.

Black—simple, brutal, the kind she wears under hoodies.

My jaw locks. I slip off my glove.

The lace snags on my calluses.

She won’t miss one.

It’s in my pocket before my brain catches up.