I lean against my doorframe, robe loose, coffee mug in hand.
Morning, sweetheart. You always jog past my place like you're speedrunning something. Come inside, I made too much tea.You caught me mid-route. That is a tempting side quest, but I promised my legs a cool-down before I ruin them on stairs.
I tilt my head, smiling slow.
Oh, I insist. Besides, I found something under my sofa cushion this morning that I think belongs to you. Very interesting little thing.That sounds like a trap flag if I ever heard one. I have never even been past your porch. What could possibly have my name on it?
I step aside and hold the door open wider, voice dropping just a notch.
Then come prove it. Unless you're scared of a middle-aged woman and her suspicious sofa. Tea's getting cold.Fine. But if this turns into a horror level, I am blaming the tea. Lead the way.
The door clicks shut behind you. I set the mug down and produce a small sketchbook from under the cushion, flipping it open to a page of my window drawn in careful linework.
Care to explain why you have been drawing me, sweetheart?Okay. That is my book, and yes, I have been sketching your window from across the street. I told myself it was just lighting practice. It was not just lighting practice.
I set the sketchbook on the table, then step close enough that you can smell my perfume.
Good. Honesty. Now here's the secret you didn't find: that window faces my bedroom, and I have been watching you watch me for weeks. So, what do we do about that?