Page 116 of Letters From A Stalker

If you closed your eyes, I would have put my mouth to your ear and told you to open them. If your knees gave out, I would have held you up by the throat and the hip and made you watch yourself take it. I would have kept you standing there until you came on your own fingers with my voice in your ear and my cock hard against your ass, knowing I could have bent you over that windowsill and fucked you through it.

That is what I wanted while I watched you. And that is only the beginning of what I would do to you if I were on the other side of that glass. I want you thinking about it. I want you restless with it. I want you so fucking crazy with the image of my hands on you that one night you stop standing at the window and open the door.

You look more beautiful in the clothes you wear at home than you know. The sweater. The shorts. The way you stand at the stove or wipe down a counter that is already clean or sit on that couch with your phone like the rest of the world can wait. You do not have to put on a show for me to want you. I already do when you think you are only living in your own house.

I saw you after that call. You stood in the kitchen too long. Still. Like whatever she said had landed and you did not know where to put it.

If I had been inside, I would have come up behind you and held you until it let go. I would have listened if that was what you needed. Or I would have put my mouth on your throat and my hands on your body and made you forget the conversation ever happened.

You decide which.

You decide when I am welcome.

—Man in the Shadows

I reach the signature and lower the page into my lap. For several seconds, I sit there staring through the words rather than actually reading them anymore, because my brain has already moved on to the much more dangerous visual he has just handed it. Him behind me at the window. His hand closing over mine. His mouth against my ear while he tells me what to do. My body responds to the image with humiliating enthusiasm, particularly considering I don't have the first clue what the man actually looks like. For all I know, I have just built an entire sexual fantasy around somebody with an unfortunate mustache and a passion for cargo shorts.

A laugh slips out. "That would be my luck."

I look at the letter again, and this time my attention catches on the part about Saturday. He saw me after the call with Mom. I don't particularly enjoy knowing he was outside while I stood in the kitchen trying not to cry, but there is something strangely comforting about the fact that he noticed something was wrong without needing to know the details. He didn't turn it into a puzzle or demand an explanation. He simply wrote what he would have done if he'd been there — held me, listened or distracted me in a considerably less therapeutic way.

My mind supplies an image before I can stop it, except this time the man standing behind me has dark hair, glasses and the controlled voice I hear once a week telling me to slow down and actually answer the question instead of making a joke out of it.

I blink.

"Nope."

Kai disappears from the fantasy as quickly as he enters it. My therapist has absolutely nothing to do with the man hiding in the woods behind my house, and apparently my imagination needs supervision. I fold the page before it can provide any more terrible ideas and tuck it back into the black envelope. The last line remains with me anyway.

You decide when I am welcome.

I'm not ready to decide anything tonight. That doesn't stop me from wondering what I might decide eventually.

By Thursday, Saturday's fight with Mom no longer feels as raw as it did while I was standing in the kitchen with the phone still in my hand, although I wouldn't exactly describe myself as over it either. Kai seems to notice something about me the moment I sit down. He doesn't immediately say anything, which somehow makes me more aware of the way his attention lingers while I settle into the lounge chair and put my bag beside my feet.

"What?" I ask eventually, smoothing one hand over my skirt as though I might discover something visibly wrong with me.

His expression remains thoughtful rather than concerned. "You look a little different today."

The comment makes me glance down at myself. "That's reassuringly vague."

"I mean it positively." He shifts back in his chair, considering me for another moment before adding, "You seem more rested."

"That could actually be true."

He picks up his pen but leaves it resting loosely between his fingers. "I haven't asked about your sleep in a while. How has it been?"

I think about it for a moment, because the answer changes depending on which night he asks about.

"It's still inconsistent. If work has been horrible or I'm tired enough, I sleep without much trouble. If I've had one of those days where my brain refuses to shut up, I can still be awake at stupid hours wondering why I said something embarrassing in 2017." I shift slightly in the chair and add, "Lately it's been pretty decent, though. Saturday was the exception."

Kai's attention sharpens just enough that I know he caught the opening.

"What happened on Saturday?"

I let out a breath and look briefly toward the window before answering. "I had a conversation with my mother that turned into significantly less of a conversation and more of a fight."

He doesn't interrupt, so I give him the shortened version instead of dragging him through every sentence Mom and I exchanged.