Page 68 of Fractured Devotion
I turn back to the apartment feed and wait.
Her door opens at 12:49 a.m.
I sit up straighter, watching as she kicks off her shoes just inside, leaving them near the mat. She peels off her coat and lets it drop to the floor. Her movements are lazy and fluid, like someone unraveling at the seams.
She moves to the kitchen, pulls open the fridge, her eyes unfocused, and takes out a leftover meal, some kind of chicken stir-fry sealed in a plastic container.
She tosses it onto the counter with one hand and presses a few buttons on the microwave. The soft hum begins as it heats for ninety seconds under her timed settings, the countdown glowing faintly in red.
Then she heads for the bedroom.
I switch feeds.
She’s undressing. First her jeans, then her fitted top. My breath catches. Her skin glows faintly under the dim light. She’snot shy about it, maybe because she thinks no one can see. But I can.
God, I can.
Every curve of her hips and the taut line of her thighs. Her bra drops next, and I suck in a breath through my teeth. My hand tightens on the armrest.
She moves like sin incarnate, unaware of the storm she stirs in me. A slow turn. Then, she slips on a thin tank and black shorts.
I can’t look away.
She moves back to the kitchen just as the microwave beeps. Her movements are languid, almost drunk on fatigue. She pulls the heated meal out and takes a few distracted bites standing by the counter, her eyes distant. Then she drifts to the couch with the plate in hand.
The cushions take her in like a lover. She eats a little more, slower now, like her body’s unsure it wants to keep functioning. Eventually, the fork drops from her hand, the plate lands askew on the side table, and her head tips back. A few minutes of shallow sleep. The kind that only exhaustion can force.
Then, groggy and sighing, she rises and makes her way toward the bedroom.
She crawls into bed, drags the covers up with one arm, and curls into herself. And I keep watching and waiting, living the moment with her.
It’s the first time in days that she has slept that deeply. Her chest rises and falls in slow, unhurried rhythms. No tossing, no turning. Just stillness.
I shouldn’t watch her for this long. I know that. But it’s not just about obsession now. It’s proximity and power. Knowing every breath she takes without her knowing mine.
I stare at the screen until the edge of dawn pinks the sky.
When she finally stirs—late and a little disoriented—I lean forward again.
She rubs her eyes, stretches with a wince, and moves to the closet. There, she peels off her clothes again, discarding the tank and shorts with a slow, practiced grace that does dangerous things to my bloodstream. Then, she steps into the bathroom, her bare legs long and tempting. My mouth dries.
Soon, she appears again and grabs fresh clothes—black slacks and a soft blouse. She dresses quickly, almost annoyed, like she’s late. Her motions are clipped and efficient.
Still perfect.
I watch until she disappears from the frame. Only then do I let myself exhale.
It’s not over.
Not even close.
But it’s beginning.
I don’t move. And I don’t follow her today.
I stay exactly where I am.
Because someone else was in her apartment last night, and I need to know who. Maybe they will be the answer to all the issues going on lately.
