Nate
I wake at six on the dot.
No alarm.
Habit does the job.
The cabin is quiet, and the air is still cool from the night before. I shower fast, pull on clean clothes, and pour coffee into a travel mug I don't bother to taste. Outside, the sky is just starting to lighten, pale grey bleeding into blue through the trees.
I'm back in the truck ten minutes later.
Same spot. Same cover. Same line of sight.
She moves through the house like she always does in the mornings — unhurried, soft, unaware she's being logged. Kitchen light first. Then the studio. Then back to the bedroom.
I track it all.
At 7:18, she leaves.
Jeans. Jacket. Hair loose.
She locks the door behind her and walks down the driveway with a coffee cup in her hand, heading toward town.
No rideshare. No companion.
She doesn't look over her shoulder.
I wait another five minutes.
Then I move.
The back fence is exactly where the blueprint said it would be. The latch sticks slightly — nothing a careful hand can't manage. I slip through, staying low, keeping to shadows out of instinct more than necessity.
Her house feels different from the outside.
Warmer.
Lived in.
The side door opens quietly.
I'm inside in under thirty seconds.
I close it behind me and stand still, listening.
Nothing.
No movement. No unexpected sounds.
Good.
I move through the space methodically, the way I always do — mapping angles, testing blind spots, cataloguing surfaces. Her living room opens into the kitchen, light spilling in from wide windows. The island still has a mug sitting on it. Coffee ring on the counter.
She didn't rush.
I start with the common areas.
Two cameras in the living room, positioned to cover both entrances and the couch. Another above the kitchen cabinets, angled toward the island and the back hallway. One is near the corner of the ceiling by the studio door, and the other is above the back entrance.
Six total between the kitchen and the living room.
Enough to see everything that matters.
The studio comes next.
Paints. Canvases. Drop cloths. A half-finished piece still on the easel. I place two cameras high and opposite each other, overlapping coverage so I don't miss movement near the windows.
Her bedroom is quieter.
More personal.
I don't linger.
Two cameras here — one angled toward the bed, another toward the door. Placement is quick and efficient. No sentiment.
The bathroom gives me pause.
Not because it's difficult.
Because it feels like crossing another line.
I consider skipping it.
Then I remind myself what this is.
Surveillance.
Coverage.
Information.
I installed two small cameras anyway — discreet, nearly invisible, positioned to capture entry and movement without being obvious.
I step back and take in the layout one last time, confirming feeds on my phone.
Every room lights up in sequence.
Clean.
Complete.
I'm moving toward the exit when I hear it.
My body reacts before my brain finishes processing.
The sound of the front door unlocking slices through the quiet.
She's back.
For half a second, my brain stalls.
Then instinct kicks in.
I move.
Barely breathing, I slip into the bedroom and flatten myself inside the closet just as her footsteps cross the threshold.
The door clicks shut inches from my shoulder.
Dark.
Her house still smells like her — something warm and clean, layered with coffee and paint and whatever soap she uses. It fills my lungs before I can stop it.
I keep my breathing shallow.
She moves through the room, humming under her breath. I hear fabric slide off skin—a soft sigh.
I close my eyes.
She's close enough now that I can see the light shift beneath the doorframe. Close enough that I can make out the quiet sounds of her moving around, completely unaware she isn't alone.
My pulse pounds in my throat.
This wasn't part of the plan.
I tell myself to stay focused.
Professional.
Controlled.
Then she steps closer.
Close enough that I can see the hem of her shirt through the crack. Close enough that her warmth seems to bleed into the air.
My jaw tightens.
I catalogue details automatically — the curve of her shoulder when she reaches for something, the way she pushes her hair back from her face.
She smells incredible.
I hate that I notice.
I hate that my body reacts before my brain catches up.
She slips out of her clothes without hurry, completely at ease in her own space. The soft brush of fabric against skin feels louder than it should.
I grip the shelf inside the closet until my knuckles ache.
This isn't a desire.
It's adrenaline.
It's proximity.
It's the wrong kind of intimacy.
She walks into the bathroom and turns on the shower.
Water starts running.
That's my window.
I move fast, silent, retracing my steps through the house and out the side door, lungs burning by the time I reach the truck.
I sit there afterwards, hands still on the steering wheel. Breathe shallow. Heart refusing to slow.
The house stays quiet.
No alarms.
No movement.
No sign she ever knew.
My pulse finally settles.
But my body doesn't.
I adjust in the seat, jaw tightening, irritated at myself.
It's the aftershock of almost being caught.
I tell myself that until it almost sounds convincing.
I check the feeds one more time.
She's in the bathroom now. Steam fogs the mirror. Her silhouette moves behind the glass.
I force myself to look away
I shouldn't be here.
I shouldn't still be watching.
But I am.
I sent Daniel a short update.
Routine beginning. No unexpected contacts. I'll have a full pattern within forty-eight hours.
He's pleased with the update.
He doesn't ask any questions.
There's no mention of money anymore.
I set the phone down slowly.
Something tightens in my chest.
This was supposed to be simple.
Coordinates.
Patterns.
Payment.
Instead, I'm sitting in the woods outside a woman's house with cameras in her walls and her scent still in my lungs.
I don't like not understanding variables.
And right now, there's one I can't quantify.
Her.
I turn the engine over and pull farther back into the trees.
Not leaving.
Just repositioning.
I stare through the windshield at nothing.
"Fuck this is going to be a problem," gripping the steering wheel.