Page 8 of His Muse

The wooden steps creak softly under my weight. I go slowly, breathing through my nose as I climb to her deck.

Tonight, the windows are dark.

It took a long time for me to come this close to her house. Weeks and weeks of watching from afar, craving her but keeping my distance, and I didn’t even notice that I was inching closer and closer until one night, I climbed that first step.

A dam burst that day. Ever since, I’ve come as near as I can each night.

I like to get so close to the windows that I can hear the floors creak under her steps, and feel the warmth of the rooms seeping through the glass. So close that my breath mists in front of me.

No glass tonight. My heart lurches as I pad across the deck to Carmen’s bedroom window, but sure enough: it’s open again. There’s nothing but air between me and the girl inside, her shape buried under a mound of blankets in her double bed.

So small. So vulnerable. She huffs softly in her sleep; tosses and turns. And there’s a faint strain of music in the background, playing from a speaker on her nightstand—it takes me a second to recognize it, but once I do, I choke back a groan.

I know that song.

Iwrotethat song.

And even though I wrote it for another musician to play, it’smyvoice drifting through Carmen’s bedroom.

She listens to my music? While shesleeps? That can’t be a coincidence, can it?

I lean so close to the open window that the warmth of the room tickles my cheeks.

Her breaths are steady and slow. She’s deep in sleep, murmuring as she shifts under the blankets, her dark hair mussed on her pillow. I grip the wooden window frame, fighting every urge to climb through the gap into her bedroom; to cross to her bed, then lie down beside her and draw her into my arms.

Fuck.

As the song ends, I hold my breath.

The next one starts, and it’s another one of mine.

Not a coincidence.That certainty pounds in my chest, getting stronger and stronger with every thump of my heart. It’s not a coincidence. Carmen chosemymusic tonight.

Does she like it?

Does she know that I’m here? I squeeze the wooden frame until it creaks.

Is this an invitation?

Fucking hell.

I hold on to the window sill like my life depends on it, and I stay out on the deck all night—but barely.

Carmen is testing my self control.

* * *

The next night, Carmen plays my music even louder. I stand in the shadows on her deck, careful to avoid the pools of moonlight, and listen with my heart in my throat. Some of these songs, I’m not sure how she even found them. They’re years old by now.

She must have researched for a long time. Dug deep through the dustiest archives of the internet.

What else has she found out about me? Is she hungry for details too?

I can’t believe this. It’s some kind of dream.

Spots of rain seep into my black sweater and cling to my hair, but I linger outside Carmen’s open bedroom window, my eyes fixed on the shape beneath the bed covers. The waves crash behind me, collapsing against the hard sand, and the salt air lashes the back of my neck.

Is she warm enough in there? I don’t want to close this window, but I’d hate for her to be cold.

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