She reclines onto the mattress slowly, as if weighing whether she even deserves rest. Hair damp, skin flushed fromthe heat of the shower, the vibrator still nestled loosely in her hand like an afterthought—or a lifeline.
I know what it is. Anyone with field knowledge does.
At first, I pretend it doesn’t matter. That this is about protocol, protection, paranoia. That I’m just ensuring the perimeter holds. That she’s safe.
But I’m not watching the perimeter. I’m watchingher.
The way her brow creases when she hesitates. The small, near-invisible breath she takes as she closes her eyes. The slow spread of vulnerability across her face—real, unarmoured. Unaware.
And that’s the problem.
She doesn’t know I’m here—silent and faceless, behind a wall of feeds and flickering security monitors. Doesn’t know that every rule I claim to live by is unravelling in real time.
It should have been easy; a glance, a check, and move on.
But Idon’tmove on.
I sit here like an addict, transfixed. Not by lust, not exactly, it’s something else, something closer to possession. Or obsession, maybe. Not with her body, but with what she represents; the illusion of normalcy in a life that’s anything but.
I should shut it down. Cut the feed. Look away.
But instead, I lean forward.
I haven’t let someone in for years. Not really. Not since Kyla. Not since everything shattered. And now this woman withfire in her voice and chaos in her veins has somehow wrenched open the one door I swore I’d never unlock.
And I don’t know whether to slam it shut… or let it open wider.
But my body acts of its own accord, my dick straining behind my fly. From here, it’s safe. No harm done. She never needs to know about this secret. My rational works enough for me to cave, freeing my dick and running my hand up and down my length in time with her own movements.
I’m observing every move she makes—the bite of her lip, the arch of her back, the way she grips onto the pillow behind her like a lifeline.
Imagining it’s me bringing her the pleasure.
Imagining it’s my tongue running all over her body, tasting her heat. The way she’d moan my name…
No.
This is wrong.
I slam the laptop shut with more force than necessary, the sound snapping through the quiet like a gunshot. My jaw clenches. Breath locked somewhere between shame and fury.
She’s a target. Someone I swore to protect.
And this? This is not protection. This is weakness masquerading as curiosity. Obsession, dressed up as vigilance.
I shove the device aside and sink into the cold edges of the room, dragging discipline back around me like armour. I will not let myself fall into that rabbit hole. Not again.
I’ve lost too much already.
With a frustrated grunt I shove away from the desk and begin to pace.
First mistake.
Like walking will burn the image out of my skull—her stretched across the mattress, skin still dewy from the shower, that damn toy cradled like a secret only she’s allowed to keep.
My jaw locks.
This is why I stay alone. Why I draw lines in blood and concrete. Why no one stays under this roof long enough to chip the walls I’ve built around every goddamn feeling.
