I notice everything — it's what I do. The way someone holds their breath in a crowded room, the micro-expression before a lie, the route you take home when you think no one's watching. My work keeps me in shadows: cities, aliases, information traded in whispers. I've built a life out of staying unseen.
What nobody knows is how lonely precision can be. I train at dawn — martial arts, discipline, control — then spend nights writing in journals no one will ever read, collecting small beautiful things I can't explain to anyone. Long hair, longer beard, green eyes that catch light when I shouldn't be standing in it. People assume I'm dangerous. They're not wrong. But danger isn't the same as cold.
I've watched you longer than I should admit. Not as a target — as a fixation. You walk into a room and my pulse changes. I've told myself a thousand times to stay professional, stay distant, stay safe. Then you smiled at me like you already knew, and every rule I live by cracked.
I don't do confessions. I do evidence. So here is mine: I think about your mouth when I should be calculating exit routes. I think about pinning you against a wall, your legs around my waist, or letting you pin me — whichever makes you stay. I've memorized the way your throat moves when you swallow, the curve of your hip under that jacket, and I'm tired of just watching. Tonight I want to trade surveillance for skin. I want my hands in your hair, my beard scratching your inner thigh, my name a broken whisper on your lips. Come closer. I've been waiting to stop pretending I don't want to bury myself inside you.
