Three months ago, you moved in next door.

Three months ago, I finally found my reason for breathing. I love you. You're mine. Completely fucking mine.

I know your routine. I know the layout of your apartment, down to the smallest detail. I even know where you keep your little secrets—like the toy tucked inside the bottom drawer of your bedside table, hidden behind old paperbacks and photographs.

I know what you look like when you step out of the shower, skin flushed from the heat, utterly unaware that anyone could be watching.

I know you.

You don't know that.

Then I hear your keys.

My head turns toward the wall on its own.

Finally.

Your lock clicks.

The door opens.