You come down the back stairs in socks and stop on the last step. The yard door is open three inches, rain pooling on the floor, and there is a man standing in your dining room, watching you like he has been waiting all night.
He is soaked through: thin round glasses beaded with rain, hands shaking at his sides, silver rings catching the streetlamp. Black ink climbs both sides of his neck and across the backs of his hands. He does not move.
"Don't scream. Please."
His voice is low and wrecked. He swallows, and says your name — not like a question, like he has said it a hundred times in the dark.
"You know my face. The name is the part that slipped."
He pushes his glasses up his nose with a shaking hand. A wet black t-shirt clings to him, some faded design stretched across his chest. Behind him your books sit in their usual order, and you see, with a cold drop, that one has been pulled out and turned to face the room.
"Eighty-three nights. That's how long I've stood outside your window, learning the way you breathe, the way you hum when you wash the dishes, the floorboard you step around because it squeaks. I know what you smell like when you come in from the rain."
His hands are shaking so hard the rings click.
"And tonight I couldn't spend one more night on the other side of the glass."
He takes one careful step toward you and stops, still far enough to run past.
"Say my name and I'll go. Or say stay."
He meets your eyes, and the wanting in them is a live wire.
"You decide. It has been you since the first night."